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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

V. 


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D) 


KKlAK.S-l'A.i^K     HKRMUmGH.  ,„,,.• 

"•'  "•»- !,„/,„  /,„./.     I      fi,    tint     •'"•■''  '  „   l".v  " 


hm  '/■'■•■  ' 


THE  WORKS 


OP 


ROBERT   BURNS 


AN    ACCOUNT  OF    HIS  LIFE, 


Criticism  on  fit's  OTritinfis. 

TO  WHICH  ARE   PREFIXED, 

SOME  OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  CHARACTER  AND  CONDITION 
OF  THE  SCOTTISH  PEASANTRY. 

BY  JAMES  CURRIE,  M.  D. 


A  NEW  EDITION, 

FOUR  VOLUMES  COMPLETE  IN  ONE 

WITH  MANY  ADDITIONAL  POEMS  AND  SONGS, 

AND 
AN  ENLARGED  AND  CORRECTED  GLOSSARY. 

From  the  last  London  Edition  of  1825. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  CRISSY  AND  J.  GRIGG. 

1832. 


M©©mAIMHIK 


THE  AUTHOK. 


Robert  Burns  was  born  on  the  29th  day  of 
January,  1759,  in  a  small  house  about  two 
miles  from  the  town  of  Ayr  in  Scotland.  The 
family  name,  which  the  poet  modernized  into 
Bums,  was  originally  Burnes  or  B unless.  His 
father,  William,  appears  to  have  been  early 
mured  to  poverty  and  hardships,  which  he 
bore  with  pious  resignation,  and  endeavoured 
to  alleviate  by  industry  and  economy.  After 
various  attempts  to  gain  a  livelihood,  he  took 
a  lease  of  seven  acres  of  land,  with  a  view  of 
commencing  nurseryman  and  public  gardener  ; 
and  having  built  a  house  upon  it  with  his  own 
hands  (an  instance  of  patient  ingenuity  by  no 
means  uncommon  among  his  countrymen  in 
humble  life,)  he  married,  December  1757, 
Agnes  Brown.*  The  first  fruit  of  his  marriage 
was  Robert,  the  subject  of  the  present  sketch. 

In  liis  sixth  year,  Robert  was  sent  to  a 
school,  where  he  made  considerable  proficiency 
in  reading  and  writing,  and  where  he  dis- 
covered an  inclination  for  books  not  very  com- 
mon at  so  early  an  age.  About  the  age  of 
thirteen  or  fourteen,  he  was  sent  to  the  parish 
school  of  Dalrymple,  where  he  increased  his 
acquaintance  with  English  Grammar,  and 
gained  some  knowledge  of  the  French.  Latin 
wis  also  recommended  to  him  ;  but  he  did  not 
make  any  great  progress  in  it. 

The  far  greater  part  of  his  time,  however, 
was  employed  on  his  father's  farm,  which,  in 
spite  of  much  industry,  became  so  unproduc- 
tive as  to  involve  the  family  in  great  distress. 
I  lis  father  having  taken  another  farm,  the 
speculation  was  yet  more  fatal,  and  involved 
his  affairs  in  complete  ruin.  He  died,  Feb.  13, 
17  1,  leaving  behind  him  the  character  of  a 
good  and  wise  man,  and  an  affectionate  father, 
who,  under  all  his  misfortunes,  struggled  to 
procure  his  children  an  excellent  education; 
and  endeavoured,  both  by  precept  and  example 
to  form  their  minds  to  religion  and  virtue. 

*  This  excellent  woman  is  still  living  in  the  family 
of  her  son  Gilbert.    (May,  1813.) 


It  was  between  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
year  of  his  age,  that  Robert  first  "  committed 
the  sin  of  rhyme."  Having  formed  a  boyish 
affection  for  a  female  who  was  his  companion 
in  the  toils  of  the  field,  he  composed  a  song, 
which,  however  extraordinary  from  one  at  his 
age,  and  in  his  circumstances,  is  far  inferior 
to  any  of  his  subsequent  performances.  He 
was  at  this  time  "  an  ungainly,  awkward 
boy,"  unacquainted  with  the  world,  but  who 
occasionally  had  picked  up  some  notions  of 
history,  literature,  and  criticism,  from  the  few 
books  within  his  reach.  These  he  informs  us, 
were  Salmon's  and  Guthrie's  Geographical 
Grammars,  the  Spectator,  Pope's  Works,  some 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  Tull  and  Dickson  on 
Agriculture,  the  Pantheon,  Locke's  Essay  on 
the  Human  Understanding,  Stackhouse's  His- 
tory of  the  Bible,  Justice's  British  Gardener's 
Directory,  Boyle's  Lectures,  Allan  Ramsay's 
Works,  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine  of  Ori- 
ginal Sin,  a  select  Collection  of  English 
Songs,  and  Hervey's  Meditations.  Of  this 
motley  assemblage,  it  may  readily  be  sup- 
posed, that  some  would  be  studied,!and  some 
read  superficially.  There  is  reason  to  think, 
however,  that  he  perused  the  works  of  the 
poets  with  such  attention  as,  assisted  by  his  na- 
turally vigorous  capacity,  soon  directed  his 
taste,  and  enabled  him  to  discriminate  ten- 
derness and  sublimity  from  affectation  and 
bombast. 

It  appears  that  from  the  seventeenth  to  the 
twenty-fourth  year  of  Robert's  age,  he  mado 
no  considerable  literary  improvement.  His  ac- 
cessions of  knowledge,  or  opportunities  of 
reading,  could  not  be  frequent,  but  no  exter- 
nal circumstances  could  prevent  the  innate 
peculiarites  of  his  character  from  displaying 
themselves.  He  was  distinguished  by  a  vigor- 
ous understanding,  and  an  untaineable  spirit. 
His  resentments  were  quick,  and,  although 
not  durable,  expressed  with  a  volubility  of 
indignation  which  could  not  but  silence  and 
overwhelm  his  humble  and  illiterate  asso- 
ciates ;  while  the  occasional  effusions  of  his 
muse  on  temporary  subjects,  which  were  hand- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


od  about  in  manuscript,  raised  him  to  a  local 
superiority  that  seemed  the  earnest  of  a  more 
extended  fame.  His  first  motive  to  compose 
.  as  has  been  already  noticed,  was  his 
early  and  warm  attachment  to  the  fair  sex. 
His  favourites  were  in  the  humblest  walks  of 
life;  but  during  his  passion,  he  elevated  them 
to  Lauras  and  Saccharissas.  His  attach- 
ments, however,  were  of  the  purer  kind,  and 
his  constant  theme  the  happiness  of  the  mar- 
ried state;  to  obtain  a  suitable  provision  for 
which,  he  engaged  in  partnership  with  a  flax- 
dresser,  hoping,  probably,  to  attain  by  degrees 
the  rank  of  a  manufacturer.  But  this  specu- 
lation was  attended  with  very  little  success, 
and  was  finally  ended  by  an  accidental  fire. 

On  his  father's  death  he  took  a  farm  in  con- 
junction with  his  brother,  with  the  honourable 
view  of  providing  for  their  large  and  orphan 
family.  But  here,  too,  he  was  doomed  to  be 
unfortunate,  although,  in  his  brother  Gilbert, 
he  had  a  coadjutor  of  excellent  sense,  a  man 
of  uncommon  powers  both  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression. 

During  his  residence  on  this  farm  he  formed 
a  connexion  with  a  young  woman,  the  con- 
sequences of  which  could  not  be  long  con- 
cealed. In  this  dilemma,  the  imprudent  couple 
agreed  to  make  a  legal  acknowledgment 
of  a  private  marriage,  and  projected  that  she 
should  remain  with  her  father,  while  he  was 
to  go  to  Jamaica  "  to  push  his  fortune."  This 
proceeding,  however  romantic  it  may  appear, 
would  have  rescued  the  lady's  character,  ac- 
cording to  the  laws  of  Scotland,  but  it  did  not 
satisfy  her  father,  who  insisted  on  having  all 
the  written  documents  respecting  the  marriage 
cancelled,  and  by  this  unfeeling  measure,  he 
intended  that  it  should  be  rendered  void.  Di- 
vorced now  from  all  he  held  dear  in  the  world, 
he  had  no  resource  but  in  his  projected  voyage 
to  Jamaica,  which  was  prevented  by  one  of 
those  circumstances  that  in  common  cases, 
might  pass  without  observation,  but  which 
eventually  laid  the  foundation  of  his  future 
fame.  For  once,  his  poverty  stood  his  friend. 
Had  lie  been  provided  with  money  to  pay  for 
his  passage  to  Jamaica,  he  might  have  set  sail, 
and  been  forgotten.  But  he  was  destitute  of 
every  necessary  for  the  voyage,  and  was  there- 
fore advised  to  raise  a  sum  of  money  by  pub- 
lishing his  poems  in  the  way  of  subscription. 
They  were  accordingly  printed  at  Kilmarnock, 
in  the  year  17*6,  in  a  small  volume,  which 
was  encouraged  by  subscriptions  for  about  :!."i(l 
copies. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  express  with  what 
eanr     admiration     these     poems    were    every 

where  received.  Old  and  young,  high  and 
low,  learned  and  ignorant,  all  were  alike  de- 
lighted. Such  transports  would  naturally  find 
their  way  into  the  bos,, hi  of  the  author, 
illy    when    he  found  that,  instead  of  the 

nece    ity  of  flying   from  his  native  land,  lie 


was  now  encouraged  to  go  to  Edinburgh 
and  superintend  the  publication  of  a  second 
edition. 

In  the  metropolis,  he  was  soon  introduced 
into  the  company  and  received  the  homage  of 
men  of  literature,  rank,  and  taste  ;  and  his  ap- 
pearance and  behaviour  at  this  time,  as  they 
exceeded  all  expectation,  heightened  and  kept 
up  I  lie  curiosity  which  his  works  had  excited. 
I  le  became  the  object  of  universal  admiration 
and  w7as  feasted,  and  flattered,  as  if  it  had  been 
impossible  to  reward  his  merit  too  highly. 
Hut  what  contributed  principally  to  extend 
his  fame  into  the  sister  kingdom,  was  his 
fortunate  introduction  to  Mr.  Mackenzie,  who, 
in  the  97th  paper  of  the  Lounger,  recommend- 
ed his  poems  by  judicious  specimens,  and 
generous  and  elegant  criticism.  From  this 
time,  whether  present  or  absent,  Burns  and 
his  genius  were  the  objects  which  engrossed 
all  attention  and  all  conversation. 

It  cannot  be  surprising  if  this  new  scene  of 
life,  produced  effects  on  Burns  which  were 
the  source  of  much  of  the  unhappiness  of  his 
future  life :  for  whilo  he  was  admitted  into 
the  company  of  men  of  taste,  and  virtue,  he 
was  also  seduced,  by  pressing  invitations  into 
the  society  of  those  whose  habits  are  too  social 
and  inconsiderate.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he 
had  little  resolution  to  withstand  those  atten- 
tions which  flattered  his  merit,  and  appeared 
to  be  the  just  respect  due  to  a  degree  of  supe- 
riority, of  which  he  could  not  avoid  being  eon 
scious.  Among  his  superiors  in  rank  and 
merit,  his  behaviour  was  in  general  decorous 
and  unassuming;  but  anions  his  more  equal 
or  inferior  associates,  he  wasliimself  ihe  soup  e 
of  the  mirth  of  the  evening,  and  repaid  the  at- 
tention and  submission  of  his  hearers  b\  sal- 
lies of  wit,  which,  from  one  of  his  birth  and 
education,  had  all  the  fascination  of  wonder. 
His  introduction,  about  the  same  lime,  into 
certain  convivial  clubs  of  higher  rank,  was  an 
injudicious  mark  of  respect  to  one  who  was 
destined  to  return  to  the  plough,  and  to  the 
simple  and  frugal  enjoyments  of  a  peasant's 
life. 

During  his  residence  at  Edinburgh,  his 
finances  were  considerably  improved  by  the 
new  edition  of  his  poems;  and  this  enabled 
him  to  visit  several  other  parts  of  his  native 
country.  He  left  Edinburgh,  May  (!,  1787, 
and  in  the  course  of  his  journey  w  as  hospitably 

received  at  the  houses  of  many  gentlemen  of 
worth  and  learning.  He  afterwards  travelled 
into  England  ae  far  as  Carlisle.  In  the  be- 
ginning  of  June  he  arrived  in  Ayrshire,  aftel 
ence  of  six  months,  during  u  Inch  lie  had 

experienced  a  change  of  fortune,  to  which  the 

hopes   ol'  few   men  in  his  situation  could    have 
aspired.        His   companion    in    some    of    these 
tours  was  a  Mr.  Nicol,  a  man  who  was  ei 
deared  to   Burns  not  only  by  the  warmth  or 
his  friendship,  hut  by  a  certain  congeniality  of 


OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


sentiment  and  agreement  inhabits.  This  sym- 
pathy, in  some  other  instances,  made  our  po- 
ll capriciously  fond  <>f  companions,  who,  in 
the  eyes  of  men  of  more  regular  conduct,  were 
insufferable. 

During  the  greater  part  of  the  winter  17S7-8, 
Bums  again  resided  in  Edinburgh,  and  enter- 
ed with  peculiar  relish  into  its  gayeties.  But 
as  the  singularities  of  his  manner  displayed 
themselves  more  openly,  and  as  the  novelty  of 
his  appearance  wore  off,  he  became  less  an  ob- 
ject of  general  attention.  He  lingered  long 
in  this  place,  in  hopes  that  some  situation 
would  have  been  offered  which  might  place 
him  in  independence  :  but  as  it  did  not  seem 
probable  that  any  thing  of  that  kind  would 
occur  soon,  he  began  seriously  to  reflect  that 
tours  of  pleasure  and  praise  would  not  pro- 
vide for  the  wants  of  a  family.  Influenced  by 
these  considerations  he  quitted  Edinburgh  in 
the  month  of  February,  1788.  Finding  him- 
self master  of  nearly  500/.  from  the  sale  of  his 
poems,  he  took  the  farm  of  Elhsland,  near 
Dumfries,  and  stocked  it  with  part  of  this  mo- 
ney, besides  generously  advancing  200/.  to 
his  brother  Gilbert,  who  was  struggling  with 
Difficulties.  He  was  now  also  legally  united 
to  Mrs.  Burns,  who  joined  him  with  their  cliil- 
dren  about  the  end  of  this  year. 

Quitting  now  speculations  for  more  active 
pursuits,  he  rebuilt  the  dwelling-house  on  his 
farm  ;  and  during  his  engagement  in  this  ob- 
ject, and  while  the  regulations  of  the  farm  had 
the  charm  of  novelty,  he  passed  his  time  in 
more  tranquillity  than  he  had  lalely  experi- 
enced. But  unfortunately,  his  old  ha'bits  were 
rather  interrupted  than  broken.  He  was  again 
invited  into  social  parties,  with  the  additional 
recommendation  of  a  man  who  had  seen  the 
world,  and  lived  with  the  great ;  and  again 
partook  of  those  irregularities  for  which  men  of 
warm  imaginations,  and  conversation-talents, 
find  too  many  apologies.  But  a  circumstance 
now  occurred  which  threw  many  obstacles  in 
his  way  as  a  farmer. 

Burns  very  fondly  cherished  those  notions 
of  independence,  which  are  dear  to  the  young 
and  ingenuous.  But  he  had  not  matured  these 
by  reflection  ;  and  he  was  now  to  learn,  that 
a  little  knowledge  of  the  world  will  overturn 
many  such  airy  fabrics.     If  we  may  form  any 

i'udgment,  however,  from  his  correspondence, 
lis  expectations  were  not  very  extravagant, 
since  he  expected  only  that  some  of  his  fllus- 
trious  patrons  would  have  placed  him,  on 
whom  they  bestowed  the  honours  of  genius,  in 
a  situation  where  his  exertions  might  have 
been  uninterrupted  by  the  fatigues  of  labour, 
and  the  calls  of  want.  Disappointed  in  this, 
he  now  formed  a  design  of  applying  for  the 
office  of  exciseman,  as  a  kind  of  resource  in 
case  his  expectations  from  tho  farm  should  be 
baffled.  By  the  interest  of  one  of  his  friends 
this  object  was  accomplished  ;  and  after  the 


usual  forms  were  gone  through,  he  was  ap- 
pointed exciseman,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  called, 
ganger  of  tho  district  in  which  he  lived. 

"  His  farm  was  now  abandoned  to  his  ser- 
vants, while  he  betook  himself  to  the  duties 
of  his  new  appointment.  He  might  still,  in- 
deed, be  seen  in  the  spring,  directing  his 
plough,  a  labour  in  wliich  he  excelled,  or  stri- 
ding with  measured  steps,  along  his  turned-up 
furrows,  and  scattering  the  gram  in  the  earth. 
But  his  farm  no  longer  occupied  the  principal 
part  of  his  care  or  his  thoughts.  Mounted  on 
horseback,  he  was  found  pursuing  the  defaul- 
ters of  the  revenue,  among  the  hills  and  vales 
of  Nithsdale." 

About  this  time  (1792,)  he  was  solicited,  to 
give  his  aid  to  Mr.  Thomson's  Collection  of 
Scottish  Songs.  He  wrote,  with  attention  and 
without  delay,  for  this  work,  all  the  songs 
which  appear  in  tliis  volume  ;  to  which  we 
have  added  those  he  contributed  to  Johnson's 
Musical  Museum. 

Burns  also  found  leisure  to  form  a  society 
for  purchasing  and  circulating  books  among 
the  farmers  of  the  neighbourhood ;  but  these, 
however  praiseworthy  employments,  still  in- 
terrupted the  attention  he  ought  to  have  be- 
stowed on  his  farm,  wliich  became  so  unpro- 
ductive that  he  found  it  convenient  to  resign 
it,  and,  disposing  of  his  stock  and  crop,  re- 
moved to  a  small  house  which  he  had  taken 
in  Dumfries,  a  short  time  previous  to  his  lyric 
engagement  with  Mr.  Thomson.  He  had  now 
received  from  the  Board  of  Excise,  an  appoint- 
ment to  a  new  district,  the  emoluments  of 
which  amounted  to  about  seventy  pounds  ster- 
ling per  annum. 

While  at  Dumfries,  his  temptations  to  ir- 
regularity, recurred  so  frequently  as  nearly  to 
overpower  his  resolutions,  and  wliich  he  ap- 
pears to  have  formed  with  a  perfect  knowledge 
of  what  is  right  and  prudent.  During  his 
quiet  moments,  however,  he  was  enlarging  his 
fame  by  those  admirable  compositions  he  sent 
to  Mr.  Thomson  :  and  his  temporary  sallies 
and  flashes  of  imagination,  in  the  merriment  of 
the  social  table,  still  bespoke  a  genius  of  won- 
derful strength  and  captivations.  It  has  been 
said,  indeed,  that,  extraordinary  as  his  poems 
are,  they  afford  but  inadequate  proof  of  the 
powers  of  their  author,  or  of  that  acuteness 
of  observation,  and  expression,  he  displayed 
on  common  topics  in  conversation.  In  the  so- 
ciety of  persons  of  taste,  he  could  refrain  from 
those  indulgences,  which,  among  Iris  more  con- 
stant companions,  probably  formed  liis  chief 
recommendation. 

The  emoluments  of  his  office,  which  now 
composed  his  whole  fortune,  soon  appeared 
insufficient  for  the  maintenance  of  his  family. 
He  did  not,  indeed,  from  the  first,  expect  that 
they  could  ;  but  he  had  hopes  of  promotion 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 


and   would  probably  have  attained   it,  if  lie 

had  not  forfeited  the  favour  of  the  Board  of 

.  by  some  cmnversations  on  the  state  of 

public  affairs,  which  were  deemed  highly  im- 

S roper,  and  were  probably  reported  to  the 
loard  in  a  way  not  calculated  to  lessen  their 
effect.  That  he  should  have  been  deceived  by 
the  affairs  in  France  daring  the  early  periods 
of  the  revolution,  is  not  surprising  ;  he  only 
caught  a  portion  of  an  enthusiasm  which  was 
then  very  general ;  but  that  he  should  have 
raised  his  imagination  to  a  warmth  beyond 
his  fellows,  will  appear  very  singular,  whin 
we  consider  that  he  had  hitherto  distinguish- 
ed himself  as  a  Jacobite,  an  adherent  to  the 
house  of  Stewart.  Yet  he  had  uttered  opi- 
nions which  were  thought  dangerous;  and  in- 
formation being  given  to  the  Board,  an  in- 
quiry was  instituted  into  his  conduct,  the  re- 
sult of  which,  although  rather  favourable,  was 
not  so  much  as  to  re-instate  him  in  the  good 
opinion  of  the  commissioners.  Interest  was 
necessary  to  enable  him  to  retain  his  office  ; 
and  he  was  informed  that  his  promotion  was 
deferred,  and  must  depend  on  his  future  be- 
haviour. 

He  is  said  to  have  defended  himself,  on  this 
occasion,  in  a  letter  addressed  to  one  of  the 
Board,  with  much  spirit  and  skill.  He  wrote 
another  letter  to  a  gentleman,  who,  hearing 
that  he  had  been  dismissed  from  his  situation, 
proposed  a  subscription  for  him.  In  tins  last, 
he  gives  an  account  of  the  whole  transaction, 
and  endeavours  to  vindicate  his  loyalty  ;  he 
also  contends  for  an  independence  of  spirit, 
which  he  certainly  possessed,  but  which  yet 
appears  to  have  partaken  of  that  extravagance 
of  sentiment  which  are  fitter  to  point  a  stanza 
than  to  conduct  a  life. 

A  passage  in  tliis  letter  is  too  characteristic 
to  be  omitted. — "Often,"  says  our  poet,  "in 
blasting  anticipation  have  I  listened  to  some 
future  hackney  scribbler,  with  heavy  malice 
of  savage  stupidity,  exultingly  asserting  that 
Burns,  notwithstanding  the  fanfaronade  of  in- 
dependence to  be  found  in  his  works,  and 
after  having  been  held  up  to  public  view,  and 
to  public  estimation,  as  a  man  of  some  genius, 
yet  quite  destitute  of  resources  within  himself 
to  support  his  borrowed  dignity,  dwindled  in- 
to a  paltry  exciseman  ;  and  slunk  out  the  rest 
of  his  insignificant  existence,  in  the  meanest 
of  pursuits,  and  among  the  lowest  of  man- 
kind." 

This  passage  has  no  doubt  often  been  read 
with  sympathy.  That  Burns  should  have  em- 
braced the  only  opportunity  in  his  power  to 
provide  for  bis  family,  can  be  no  topic  of 
censure  or  ridicule,  and  however  incompatible 
with  the  cultivation  of  genius  the  business  of 
an  exciseman  may  be,  there  is  nothing  of  mo- 
ral turpitude  or  disgrace  attached  to  it.  It 
was  not  his  choice,  it  was  the  only  help  within 


his  reach  :  and  he  laid  hold  of  it.  But  that  he 
should  not  have  found  a  patron  generous  or 
wise  enough  to  place  him  in  a  situation  at 
least  free  from  allurements  to  "the  sin  that 
so  easily  beset  him  ;"  is  a  circumstance  on 
which  the  admirers  of  Burns  have  found  it 
painful  to  dwell. 

Mr.  Mackenzie,  in  the  97th  number  of  the 
Lounger,  after  mentioning  the  poet's  design 
of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  concludes  that 
paper  in  words  to  which  sufficient  attention 
appears  not  to  have  been  paid  :  "  1  trust 
means  may  be  found  to  prevent  this  resolu- 
tion from  taking  place  ;  and  that  I  do  my 
country  no  more  than  justice,  when  I  suppose 
her  ready  to  stretch  out  the  hand  to  cherish 
and  retain  this  native  poet,  whose  "  wood 
notes  wild"  possess  so  much  excellence.  To 
repair  the  wrongs  of  suffering  or  neglected 
merit  ;  to  call  forth  genius  from  the  obscurity 
in  which  it  had  pined  indignant,  and  place  it 
where  it  may  profit  or  delight  the  world  : — these 
are  exertions  which  give  to  wealth  an  enviable 
superiority,  to  greatness  and  to  patronage  a 
laudable  pride." 

Although  Burns  deprecated  the  reflections 
which  might  be  made  on  his  occupation  of 
exciseman,  it  may  be  necessary  to  add,  that 
from  this  humble  step,  he  foresaw  all  the  con- 
tingencies and  gradations  of  promotion  up  to 
a  rank  on  which  it  is  not  usual  to  look  with 
contempt.  In  a  letter  dated  1794,  he  states 
that  he  is  on  the  list  of  supervisors  ;  that  in 
two  or  three  years  he  should  be  at  the  head 
of  that  list,  and  be  appointed,  as  a  matter  of 
course  ;  but  that  then  a  friend  might  be  of 
service  in  getting  him  into  a  part  of  the  king- 
dom which  he  would  like.  A  supervisor's  in- 
come varies  from  about  120/.  to  200/.  a  year  : 
but  the  business  is  "  an  incessant  drudgery, 
and  would  be  nearly  a  complete  bar  to  every 
species  of  literary  pursuit."  He  proceeds, 
however,  to  observe,  that  the  moment  he  is 
appointed  supervisor  ho  might  be  nominated 
on  the  Collector's  list, "  and  tliis  is  always  a 
business  purely  of  political  patronage.  A  col- 
Iectorship  varies  from  much  better  than  two 
hundred  a  year  to  near  a  thousand.  Col 
tors  also  come  forward  by  precedency  on  the 
list,  and  have  besides  a  handsome  income,  a 
life  of  complete  leisure.  A  life  of  literary  lei- 
sure; with  a  decent  competence,  is  the  summit 
of  my  wishes." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  continue  in 
his  present  employment  for  the  remainder  of 
his  days,  which  were  not  man)'.  His  consti- 
tulion  was  now  rapidly  decaying;  yet,  his 
resolutions  of  amendment  were  but  feeble. 
His  temper  became  irritable  and  gloomy,  and 
he  was  even  insensible  to  the  kind  forgiveness 
and  soothing  attentions  of  his  affectionate  wife. 
In  the  month  of  June,  179b,  he  removed  to 
Brow,  about  ten  miles  from  Dumfries,  to  try 


OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


the  effect  of  sea-bathing ;  a  remedy  that  at 
first,  lie  imagined,  relieved  the  rheumatic  pains 
in  his  limbs,  with  which  he  had  been  afflicted 
for  some  months :  but  this  was  immediately 
followed  by  a  new  attack  of  fever.  When 
brought  back  to  his  house  at  Dumfries,  on  the 
18th  of  July,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand 
upright.  The  fever  increased,  attended  with 
delirium  and  debility,  and  on  the  21st  ho 
expired,  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his  age. 

He  left  a  widow  and  four  sons,  for  whom 
the  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  opened  a  sub- 
scription, which  being  extended  to  England, 
produced  a  considerable  sum  for  their  imme- 
diate necessities.*  This  has  since  been  aug- 
mented by  the  profits  of  the  edition  of  his 
works,    printed  in   four   volumes,  8vo. ;    to 


*  Mrs.  Burns  continues  to  live  in  the  house  in  which 
the  Poet  died:  the  eldest  son,  Robert,  is  at  present  in  the 
Stamp  Office :  the  other  two  are  officers  in  the  East  In- 
dia Company's  army,  William  is  in  Bengal,  and  James 
in  Madras,  (May,  1813.)  Wallace,  the  second  son,  a  lad 
of  great  promise  died  of  a  consumption. 


which  Dr.  Currie,  of  Liverpool,  prefixed  a  life, 
written  with  much  elegance  and  taste. 

As  to  the  person  of  our  poet,  he  is  described 
as  being  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height, 
and  of  a  form  that  indicated  agility  as  well  as 
strength.  His  well-raised  forehead,  shaded 
with  black  curling  hair,  expressed  uncommon 
capacity.  His  eyes  were  large,  dark,  full  of 
ardour  and  animation.  His  face  was  well 
formed,  and  his  countenance  uncommonly  in- 
teresting. His  conversation  is  universally 
allowed  to  have  been  uncommonly  fascinating, 
and  rich  in  wit,  humour,  whim,  and  occa- 
sionally in  serious  and  apposite  reflection. 
This  excellence,  however,  proved  a  lasting 
misfortune  to  him  :  for  while  it  procured  him 
the  friendship  of  men  of  character  and  taste,  in 
whose  company  his  humour  was  guarded  and 
chaste,  it  had  also  allurements  for  the  lowest 
of  mankind,  who  know  no  difference  between 
freedom  and  licentiousness,  and  are  never  so 
completely  gratified  as  when  genius  conde- 
scends to  give  a  kind  of  sanction  to  their 
grossness.  He  died  poor,  but  not  in  debt,  and 
left  beliind  him  a  name,  the  fame  of  which 
will  not  soon  be  eclipsed. 


ON 


THE  DEATH  OF   BURNS. 


BY  MR.  ROSCOE. 


Rear  high  thy  hleak,  majestic  hills, 

Thy  sheltered  valleys  proudly  spread, 
And,  Scotia,  pour  thy  thousand  rills, 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red  ; 
But,  ah  !  what  poet  now  shall  tread 

Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign, 
Since  he  the  sweetest  bard  is  dead 

That  ever  breath 'd  the  soothing  strain ? 


As  green  thy  towering  pines  may  grow, 

As  clear  thy  streams  may  speed  along ; 
As  bright  thy  summer  suns  may  glow, 

And  wake  again  thy  feathery  throng ; 
But  now,  unheeded  is  the  song, 

And  dull  and  lifeless  all  around, 
For  liis  wild  harp  lies  all  unstrung, 

And  cold  the  hand  that  wak'd  its  sound. 


What  tho'  thy  vigorous  offspring  rise 

In  arts  and  arms  thy  sons  excel ; 
Tho'  beauty  in  thy  daughters'  eyes, 

And  health  in  every  feature  dwell ; 
Yet  who  shall  now  their  praises  tell, 

Tn  strains  impassion'd,  fond,  and  free, 
Since  he  no  more  the  song  shall  swell 

To  love,  and  liberty,  and  thee  ! 


With  step-dame  eye  and  frown  severe 

His  hapless  youth  why  didst  thou  view : 
For  all  thy  joys  to  him  were  dear, 

And  all  his  vows  to  thee  were  due : 
Nor  greater  bliss  his  bosom  knew, 

In  opening  youth's  delightful  prime, 
Than  when  thy  favouring  ear  he  drew 

To  listen  to  his  chanted  rhyme. 


Thy  lonely  wastes  and  frowning  skies 

To  him  were  all  with  rapture  fraught ; 
He  heard  with  joy  the  tempests  rise 

That  wak'd  him  to  sublimer  thought; 
An<l  oft  thy  winding  dells  he  sought, 

Where  wild  flowers  pour'd  their  rath  perfume, 
And  with  sincere  devotion  brought 

To  thee  the  summer's  earliest  bloom. 


But,  ah !  no  fond  maternal  smile 

His  unprotected  youth  enjoy'd ; 
His  limbs  inur'd  to  early  tod, 

Hi3  days  with  early  hardships  tried : 
And  more  to  mark  the  gloomy  void, 

And  bid  him  feel  his  misery, 
Before  his  infant  eyes  would  glide 

Day-dreams  of  immortality. 


Yet,  not  by  cold  neglect  depress'd, 

With  sinewy  arm  he  turn'd  the  soil, 
Sunk  with  the  evening  sun  to  rest, 

And  met  at  morn  his  earliest  smile. 
Wak'd  by  his  rustic  pipe,  meanwhile 

The  powers  of  fancy  came  along, 
And  soothed  his  lengthen'd  hour  of  toil 

With  native  wit  and  sprightly  song. 

— Ah !  days  of  bliss,  too  swiftly  fled, 

When  vigorous  health  from  labour  springs, 
And  bland  contentment  smooths  the  bed, 

And  sleep  his  ready  opiate  brings ; 
And  hovering  round  on  airy  wings 

Float  the  light  forms  of  young  desire, 
That  of  unutterable  things 

Tho  soft  and  shadowy  hope  inspire. 


Now  spells  of  mightier  power  prepare, 

Bid  brighter  phantoms  round  him  dance  : 
Let  flattery  spread  her  viewless  snare, 

And  fame  attract  his  vagrant  glance  : 
Let  sprightly  pleasure  too  advance, 

UnveU'd  her  eyes,  unclasp 'd  her  zone, 
Till  lost  in  love's  delirious  trance 

He  scorns  the  joys  his  youth  has  known. 

Let  friendship  pour  her  brightest  blaze, 

Expanding  all  the  bloom  of  soul; 
And  mirth  concentre  all  her  rays, 

And  point  them  from  the  sparkling  bowl ; 
And  let  the  careless  moments  roll 

In  social  pleasures  unconfin'd, 
And  confidence  that  spurns  control, 

Unlock  the  inmost  springs  of  mind. 
A.  2 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 


And  load  his  stops  those  bowers  among, 

Where  elegance  with  splendour  vies, 
Or  science  bids  her  ravour'd  throng 

To  more  refin'd  sensations  rise  ; 
Beyond  the  peasant's  humbler  joys, 

And  treed  from  each  laborious  strife, 
There  let  him  Learn  the  bliss  to  prize 

That  waits  the  sons  of  polish 'd  life. 

Then  whilst  his  throbbing  veins  beat  high 

\\  nil  every  impulse  of  delight, 
Dash  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  JO]  , 

And  shroud  the  Bcene  in  shades  of  night ; 
And  let  despair,  with  wizard  light, 

I  disclose  the  yawning  gulf  below, 
And  pour  incessanl  on  his  sight, 

iler  spectred  ills  and  shapes  of  wo  : 

And  show  beneath  a  cheerless  shed, 

With  sorrowing  heart  and  streaming  eyes, 

In  silent  grief  where  droops  her  head, 
The  partner  of  his  early  joys ; 


And  let  his  infant's  tender  cries 
I  Us  fond  parental  succour  claim, 

And  bid  him  hear  in  agonies 
A  husband  and  a  father's  name. 

'Tis  done — the  powerful  charm  succeeds; 

I  [is  high  reluctant  spirit  bends  ; 
In  bitterness  of  soul  he  bleeds, 

Nor  longer  with  his  fate  contends. 
An  idiot  laugh  the  welkin  rends 

As  genius  thus  degraded  lies  ; 
Till  pitying  Heaven  the  veil  extends 

That  slirouds  the  Poet's  ardent  eyes. 

— Rear  high  thy  bleak,  majestic  hills, 

Thy  shelter'd  valleys  proudly  spread, 
And,  Scotia,  pour  thy  thousand  rills, 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red ; 
But  never  more  shall  poet  tread 

Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign, 
Since  he  the  sweetest  bard  is  dead 

That  ever  breath'd  the  sootliing  strain. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Biographical  Sketch  of  the  Author, .  iii 

On  the  Death  of  Hums,  by  Mr.  Roscoc,  viii 
Preface  to  the  First  Edition  of  Burns' 

Poems,  published  at  Kilmarnock,      .  1 
Dedication   of  the  Second  Edition  of 
the  Poems  formerly  printed,  To  the 
Noblemen    and    Gentlemen  of   the 

Caledonian  Hunt,     ....  2 

POEMS,  CHIEFLY  SCOTTISH. 

The  Twa  Dogs,  a  Tale,      ...  3 

Scotch  Drink,      .....  5 
The  Author's  earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to 
the   Scotch   Representatives  in  the 

House  of  Commons,         ...  7 

Postscript,    ......  8 

The  Holy  Fair 9 

Death  and'  Dr.  Hornbook,    ...  11 
The  Brio-s  0f  Ayr,  a  Poem  inscribed  to 

j,  2*********,  Esq.  Ayr,         .         .  13 

The  Ordination, 16 

The  Calf.     To  the  Rev.  Mr. .  18 

Address  to  the  Dcil,      ...  ib. 
The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor 

Mailie, 19 

Poor  Mailie's  Elegy,     ....  20 

To  j.  y;  <***, 21 

A  Dr»am, 23 

The  Vision 24 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or  the  Rigid- 
ly Righteous,  .  ...  27 
Tara  Samson's  Elegy, .  ...  28 
The  Epitaph,  .  29 
Halloween,  .  .  .  .  ib. 
The  Auld  Farmer's  New-Year  Morning 

Salutation  to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie,  33 
To  a  Mouse,  on  turning  her  up  in  her 
nest    with    the    Plough,  November, 

ITS.") 34 

A  Winter  Night,           ....  35 
Epistle  to  Davie,  a  Brother  Poet,          .  3G 
The  Lament,  occasioned  by  the  unfor- 
tunate issue  of  a  Friend's  Amour,      .  37 
Despondency,  an  Ode,          ...  38 
Winter,  a  Dirge,           ....  39 
The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,       .         .  ib. 
Man  was  made  to  Mourn,  a  Dirge,       .  42 
A  Prayer  in  the  prospect  of  Death,        .  43 
Stanzas  on  the  same  occasion,      .         .  ib. 
Verses  left  by  the  Author,  in  the  room 
where  he  slept,  having  lain  at  the 
House  of  a  Reverend  Friend,    .         .  44 
The  First  Psalm,  ib. 


Page 

A  Prayer,  under  the  pressure  of  violent 

Anguish, 44 

The   first  six  verses  of  the   Ninetieth 

Psalm, 45 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  on  turning  one 

down  with  the  Plough,  in  April,  178(5,         ib. 

To  Ruin, ib. 

To  Miss  L: ,  with  Beattio's  Poems  as 

a  New  Year's  Gift,  Jan.  1,  1787,        .         46 

Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend,  ib. 

On   a   Scotch  Bard,  gone  to  the  West 

Indies, 47 

To  a  Haggis, 48 

A  Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.         ib. 

To  a  Louse,  on  seeing  one  on  a  Lady's 

Bonnet  at  Church,  ...         49 

Address  to  Edinburgh,  ...         59 

Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik,  an  old  Scottish 

Bard, 51 

To  the  Same, 52 

To  W.  S*****n,  Ochiltree,  May,  1785,         53 

Postscript, 54 

Epistle  to  J.  R******,  enclosing  some 
Poems, 55 

John  Barleycorn,  a  Ballad,   ...         56 

Written  in  Friars-Carse  Hermitage,  on 

Nith-Side, 62 

Ode,  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Mrs. , 

of 63 

Elegy  on  Capt.  Matthew  Henderson,    .         ib. 

The  Epitaph, 64 

To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.  of  Fintra,      .         65 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn,  .         66 

Lines  sent  to  Sir  John  Whitefoord  of 
Whitefoord,  Bart,  with  the  foregoing 
Poem, 67 

Tain  O'  Shanter,  a  Tale,  ib. 

On  seeing  a  wounded  Hare  limp  by  me, 

which  a  fellow  had  just  shot  at,         .         69 

Address  to  the  Shade  of  Thomson,  on 
crowning  his  bust  at  Ednam,  Rox- 
burghshire, with  Bays,  ib 

Epitaph  on  a  celebrated  Ruling  Elder,  70 

On  a  Noisy  Polemic,  ib. 

On  Wee  Johnie, ib. 

For  the  Author's  Father,  ib. 

For  R.  A.  Esq 70 

For  G.  H.  Esq ib. 

A  Bard's  Epitaph,  ib. 

On  the  late  Captain  Grose's  Peregrina- 
tions through  Scotland,  collecting  the 
Antiquities  of  that  Kingdom,     .         .         71 

To  Miss  Cmikshanks,  a  very  young 
Lady.  Writtenon  theblankleaf  of  a 
Book,  presented  to  her  by  the  Author,        ib. 


CONTENTS. 


On  reading  in  a  Newspaper  iho  Death 

of  John   M'Leod,  Esq.   Brother  to  a 

young   Lady,  a  particular  Friend  of 

the  Author's,    ..... 

The  Humble  petition  of  Bruar  Water  to 

the  Noble  Duke  of  Athole, 
On  scaring  some  Water-Fowl  in  Loch- 
Turit, 

Written  with  a  Pencil  over  theChimncy- 
piece,  m  the  Parlour  of  the  Inn  at 
Kenmore,  Taymouth, 

Written  with  a  Pencil,  standing  by  the 
[•'all  of  Fyers,  uear  Loch-Ness, 

On  the  Birth- of  a  Posthumous  Child, 
Born  in  peculiar  Circumstances  of 
Family  Distress,       .... 

The  Whistle,  a  I);. Had.         .        , 

Second  Epistle  to  Davie, 

Lines  on  an  interview  with  Lord 
Daer,       ...... 

On  the  Death  of  a  Lap-Dog,  named 
Echo        ...... 

Inscription  to  the  Memory  of  Fergusson, 

Epistle  to  It.  Graham,  Esq. 

Fragment,  inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon. 
C.J.  Fox, 

To  Dr.  Blacklock,       .... 

Prologue,  spoken  at  the  Theatre  Ellis- 
land,  on  New-Year's-Day  Evening, 

Elegy  on  the  late  Miss  Burnet,  of  Mon- 
boddo,      

The  Rights  of  Woman, 

Address,  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle, 
on  her  Benefit  Night,  Dec.  4,1795,  at 
the  Theatre,  Dumfries.     . 

Verses  to  a  young  Lady,  with  a  present 
of  Songs,  ..... 

Lines  written  on  a  blank  leaf  of  a  copy 
of  his  poems  presented  to  a  young 
Lady, 

Copy  of  a  Poetical  Address  to  Mr. 
William  Tytler,         .... 

Caledonia,   ...... 

Poem  written  to  a  Gentleman  who  had 
sent  him  a  Newspaper,  and  offered  to 
continue  it  free  of  expense, 

Poem  on  Pastoral  Poetry,    . 

Sketch — New  Year's  Day,    . 

Cztempore,  on  the  late  Mr.  William 
Smellie,    ...... 

Poetical  Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  In- 
dependence,     ..... 

Sonnet,  on  the  Death  of  Rohcrt  Riddel, 
Esq. 

Monody  on  a  Lady  famed  for  her  ca- 
price,       ...... 

The  Epitaph, 

Answer  to  a  mandate  sent  by  the  Sur- 
veyor of  the  Windows,  ( larriages,  <fcc. 

Impromptu,    on  Mrs. 's  Birth-day, 

To  a  young  Lady,   Miss  Jessy , 

Dumfries ;  with  Books  which  the  Bard 
presented  her,  ..... 

Sonnet,  written  on  the  25th  of  January, 
1793,  the  Birth-day  of  tho  Author,  on 


Per  ire 


84 
95 

104 

117 

118 

119 
ib. 

120 

121 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
122 

ib. 
123 


hearing  a  Thrush  sing  in  a  morning 

walk,       ...... 

Extempore,  to  Mr.  S**e,  on  refusing  to 

dine  with  him, 
To  Mr.  S**e,  with  a  present  of  a  dozen 

of  porter,         .... 
Poem,  addressed  to  Mr.  Mitchell,  col 

lector  of  Excise,  Dumfries,  1796, 
Sent  to  a  Gentleman  whom  he  had  of- 

fendsd,  ..... 
Poem  on  Life,  addressed  to  Col.  De 

Peyster,.  Dumfries, 
Address  to  the  Tooth-ach, 
To  Robert  Graham,  Esq.  of  Fintry,on 

receiving  a  favour, 
Epitaph  on  a  Friend, 

A  (  H'uee  before  Dinner, 

<  >n    Sensibility.      Addressed    to   Mrs 

Dunlop,  of  Dunlop, 
A  Verse.  When  Death's  dark  stream 

ferry  o'er.        .... 
Verses  written  at  Selkirk,  . 
I  liberty,  a  Fragment, 
Elegyon  the  death  ofRobertRuisseaux 
Tin   loyal  Natives' Verses, 
Burns— Extempore,   . 
To  J.  Lapraik,  .... 
To  the  Rev.  John  M'Math,  enclosing 

a  copy  of   Holy     \\  illie'.s    Prayer, 

which  he  had  requested, . 
To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.  Mauchline 

recommending  a  Boy, 
To  Mr.  M'Adam,  of  Craigen-Gillan, 
To  Capt.  Riddel,  Glenriddel,      . 
To  Tcrraughty,  on  his  Birth-day, 
To  a  Lady,  with  a  present  of  a  pair  of 

drinking-glasses, 
The  Vowels,  a  Tale,  . 
Sketch,      ..... 
Scots  Prologue,  for  Mr.  Sutherland'; 

Benefit,  .... 

Extemporaneous  Effusion  on  being  ap 

pointed  to  the  Excise, 
On  seeing  the  beautiful  scat  of  Lord  G 
On  the  same,      .... 
On  the  same,     .... 
To  the  same   on    the   Author   being 

threatened  with  his  resentment, 
The  Dean  of  Faculty, 
Extempore  in  the  Court  of  Session, 
Verses  to  J.  ttanken, . 
( )n  hearing  that  there  was  falsehood  in 

the  Rev.  Dr.  1! \s  very  looks, 

On  a  Schoolmaster  in  Cleish  Parish 

Fifeshire,        .... 
Elegy  on  the  Year  1788,  a  Sketch, 
Verses  written  under   the  Portrait  of 

Fergusson,  the  Poet, 
The  Guidwife  of  Wauehopc-houso  to 

Robert  Burns, 
The  Answer,      .... 
The  Kirk's  Alarm,  A  Satire, 
The  twa  Herds, 
Epistle  from  a  Taylor  to  Robert  Burns, 
The  Answer,      ... 


Letter  to  John  Goudie,  Kilmarnock,  on 
the  publication  of  his  Essays, 

Letter  to  J — s  T 1  Gl nc r, 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter 
Blair 

The  Jolly  Beggars,  a  Cantata. 


CONTENTS 


Page 


SONGS. 


Adieu  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu  ! 
Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander, 
Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever, 
Again  rejoicing  nature  sees, 
A  1  [ighland  lad  my  love  was  born, 
Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir, 
Amang  the  trees  where  humming  bees 
An  < >,  for  ane  and  twenty,  Tarn  ! 
Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  De- 
cember !  .... 
Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire, 
A  rose-bud  by  my  early  walk, 
As  1  cam  in  by  our  gate-end, 
As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 
As  I  was  a-wandering  ae  morning  in 

spring,      ..... 
Awa  wi'  your  witchcraft   o'  beauty's 
alarms, 


B. 


Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows, 
Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive  ; 
Beyond    thee,    dearie,    beyond    thee 

dearie,      ..... 
Blithe,  blithe  and  merry  was  she, 
Blithe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill, 
Bonnie  lassie  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  wee  thing,  caimie  wee  thing, 
But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 
By  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove, 
By  yon  castle  wa',  at  the  close  of  the 

day, 


Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 
Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 
Comin  thro'  the  rye,  poor  body, 
Contented  wi1  little,  and  cantie  wi'  mair, 
Could  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains, 

D. 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure, 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat  ?    . 


157 
ib. 


158 
159 


CI 
92 
141 
60 
160 
146 
145 
112 

114 

71 
107 
149 
117 

147 

105 


59 
93 

139 

107 

90 

106 

112 

98 

91 

83 


96 
100 
108 

92 
129 
100 
150 


94 
124 


Duncan  Grny  came  here  to  woo, 

F. 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day, 
Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 

Farewell,    thou    fair   day,  thou  green 

earth,  and  ye  skies. 
Farewell    thou    stream    that  wm'ding 

flows,        ...... 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 
Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 
First  when  Maggie  was  my  care, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy 

green  braes,      ..... 
Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go,  .         . 


G. 


Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk's  the  night, . 
Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 
Green  grows  the  rashes,  O  !         . 


1!. 


Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Here's  a  bottle  and  an  honest  friend, 
Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear, 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower 
Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  wing, 
How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 
How  cruel  are  the  parents, 
How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, 
How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear 

winding  Devon, 
Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 


I. 


I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard, 

I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 

I  am  a  son  of  Mars,       .         .         . 

I  do  confess  thou  art  so  fair, 

I  dream 'd  I  lay    where  flowers  were 

springing,  .... 

I  gaed  a  waefu'  gate  yestreen, 
1  hae  a  wife  o'  my  ain,  .         . 

I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town, 
I'll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet,    . 
In  simmer  when  the  hay  was  raawn, 
I  once  was  a  maid  tho'  I  cannot  tell 

when, 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty, 

It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 

It  was  the  charming  month  of*  May, 

J. 

Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss,    . 
John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 


Page 

86 


151 

106 


99 
142 

116 
142 

115 
104 

61 


111 

137 

59 


91 

88 
143 
105 
146 

95 
147 

96 
102 

97 

78 
95 


162 
161 
159 

138 

137 
110 
78 
142 
143 
112 

159 
100 

58 
98 


126 

110 


CONTEXTS. 


Page 


Ken  ye  ought  o"  Captain  Grose  ? 


Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks, 

Last  .May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the 

langglen,       ■    .         ... 
Let  me  ryke  up  to  (light  that  tear, 
Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 
Long,  long  the  night,    . 
Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes, 
Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee,  . 


M. 


Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion,     . 
Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
My  bonny  lass,  I  work  in  brass,     . 
My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 
My  father  was  a  farmer  upon  the  Car- 
rick  border,  O,  .... 
Mv  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  Tittie, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart 
is  not  here ;..... 
My  heart  is  sair,  I  dare  na  tell, 
My  lady's  gown  there's  gairs  upon't,     . 
My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form,     . 


N. 


Nae  Gentle  dames,  tho'  e'er  sae  fair,     . 
No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to 

write,        ...... 

Now  bank  and  brae  are  claith'd  in  green 
Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  nature 

arrays, 

Now  nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 
Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers 
Now  spring  has  cloth'd  the  groves  in 

green,     

Now  weslin  winds  and    slaughtering 

guns, 


o. 


O  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 
O  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier, 
O  cam  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun,  . 
Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 
< )  gin  mv  love  were  yon  red  rose, 
O  guidale  corro   ,  and  guid  ale  goes, 
<  i  how  can  I  be  blithe  and  glad,    . 
Ob,  open  ili"  door,  some  pity  to  show, 
Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast,  . 
O  ken  yewhaMeg  o'  the  Mill  has  got- 
ten ...... 

O  lassie,  art  thou  sleepin  yet? 
O  have  novels,  ye  Mauchlino  belles, 
< )  Leeze  rne  on  my  eroinning  wheel, 
O  Logan,    weetiy  didst  thou  glide, 
O  lovely  Polly  Stewart, 
O  hive  will  venture  in,  where  it  daur  na 
wool  he  seen. 


12G 


90 

104 
1G1 
97 
102 
106 
116 


103 

107 

161 

98 

.140 
110 

138 
116 
150 
126 


122 

62 
141 

100 
64 
93 

103 

58 


151 
104 
120 
109 

90 
150 
141 

88 
123 

89 
llil 
151 
112 

90 
149 

113 


< )  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 
•  >  May,  thy  morn  was  no'er  sae  sweet, 
( )  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty, 
O  mirk,  mirk  is  the  midnight  hour, 
O  my  hive's  like  a  red,  red  rose,   . 
On  a  bank  of  flowers,  one  summer's 

day,  .         .         .         . 

On  Cessnock  banks  there  lives  a  lass, 
One  night  as  I  did  wander,  . 
O,  once  I  lov'd  a  bonnie  lass, 
O  Philly,  happy  be  the  day,  . 

O  poortith  cauld,  and  restless  love, 
O  raging  fortune's  withering  blast, 
O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley, 
O  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely? 
O  stay,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay 
O  tell  na  me  o'  wind  and  rain, 
O,  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie,    . 
O  Tibbie,  I  hac  seen  the  day, 
Out  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north 
O,  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town, 
O,  were  I  on  Parnassus'  hill ! 
O  wha  is  she  that  lo'es  me,  . 
O  wha  my  babic-clouts  will  buy  ? 
O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad 
O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut,  . 
O  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie 

Dunbar,    ..... 
O  why  the  deuce  should  I  repine, 


Powers  celestial,  whose  protection 


R. 


Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 
Robin  shure  in  hairst,  . 


S. 


Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 
Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us,  . 
She's  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my 

smart,       ..... 
She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
Sir  Wisdom's  a  fool  when  he's  fou, 
Sleep'st  thou,  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest 

creature, 

Slow    spreads    the    gloom    my    soul 

desires,     .         .         .         .         • 
Stay  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me? 
Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 
Bweel  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigic-burn, 


T. 

The  bairns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout, 
The  <  !a1  fine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 
The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 


Page 

87 
116 
111 

87 
117 

151 

143 

145 

79 

99 

86 

146 

85 

97 

101 

ib. 

103 

108 

142 

116 

109 

125 

138 

92 

110 

149 

163 


144 


107 
149 


96 
127 

94 
162 

115 

85 

93 

160 

97 

152 

10(i 

78 

101 


150 
109 
ib. 


CONTENTS. 


Tho  deil  cam  fiddling  tho'  the  town, 
The  yloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast, 
Tho  1  leather  was  blooming,tho  meadows 

were  mawn, 

Tlie  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of 

the  hill, 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green 

leaves  returning, 
The  smiling  spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 
The  Thames  ilows  proudly  to  the  sea, 
The  winter  it  is  past,  and  the  simmer 

comes  at  last,    .... 
Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign 

lands  reckon,    .... 
There's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in 

yon  glen,  .... 

There's  a  youth  in  this  city,  it  were  a 

great  pity,         .... 
There's  braw,  braw  lads   on  Yarrow 

braes, 

There  was  a  bonnie  lass,  and  a  bonnie, 

bonnie  lass,       .... 
There  was  a  lad  was  born  at  Kyle, 
There  was  a  lass  and  she  was  fair, . 
There  were  five  carlins  in  the  South, 
Thickest  night  o'erhang  my  dwelling ! 
Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 
Tho'  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,     . 
Thou  lingering  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 
To    thee,    lov'd    Nith,   thy  gladsome 

plains, 
True  heatrcd  was  he,  the  sad  swain  of 

Yarrow,  .  ... 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 
Twas   even,   the    dewy   fields    were 

green,       

Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  e'e  was  my 

ruin;  . 


Page 

144 
CO 

144 


109 
116 

79 
115 
110 

147 

102 

86 

138 

87 

149 
146 

90 
152 
106 

94 
141 

93 

77 

147 

89 
113 

76 

102 


PrtgC 


U. 


Up  in  the  morning's  no  for  mc,     . 

W. 

Wae  is  my  heart  and  the  tear's  in  my  e'e, 
Wee  Willie  Gray,  and  his  leather  wallet ; 
Wha  is  this  at  my  bower  door  ?     . 
What  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall  a 

young  lassie,     ..... 
When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 
When  Guilford  good  our  pilot  stood,    . 
When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star, 
When    January    winds  were  blawing 

cauld, 

When    wild    war's  deadly  blast    was 

blawn,      ...... 

Where  are  the  joys  I  hae  met  in  the 

morning, 

Where  braving  angry  winter's  storms, 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea, 

While  larks,  with  little  wing, 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover, 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed,    . 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

Y. 

Yo   banks    and    braes,   and   streams, 

around, 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon,     . 
Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
Ye  gallants  bright  I  red  you  right, 
Yestreen  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine,     . 
Yon  wand'ring  rill,  that  marks  the  hill, 
Yon  wild  mossy  mountains, 
Young  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad,     . 
Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 
I  You're  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier, 


137 


144 
150 
140 

111 

146 

57 

84 

153 

89 

94 
108 
115 

91 
105 

85 
114 

ib. 


85 
113 
114 
137 
144 
149 
139 
14'J 
145 
136 


PREFACE 


FIRST  EDITION 


m  it 


8»    1  ©  1  1  ^ 


ga 


4KJ) 


£>a 


PUBLISHED  AT  KILMARNOCK  IN  1786. 


The  following  trifles  are  not  the  production 
of  the  poet,  who,  with  all  the  advantages  of 
learned  art,  and,  perhaps  amid  the  elegancies 
and  idlenesses  of  upper  life,  looks  down  for  a 
rural  theme,  with  an  eye  to  Theocritus  or  Vir- 
gL.  To  the  author  of  this,  these  and  other 
celebrated  names,  their  countrymen,  are,  at 
least  in  their  original  language,  a  fountain  shut 
up,  and  a  b3ok  sealed.  Unacquainted  witli  the 
necessary  requisites  for  commencing  poet  by 
rule,  he  sings  the  sentiments  and  manners  he 
felt  and  saw  in  himself  and  his  rustic  com- 
peers around  him,  in  his  and.  their  native  lan- 
guage. Though  a  rhymer  from  his  earliest 
years,  at  least  from  the  earliest  impulses  of 
the  softer  passions,  it  was  not  till  very  lately 
that  the  applause,  perhaps  the  partiality,  of 
friendship,  wakened  his  vanity  so  far  as  to 
make  him  think  any  thing  of  his  wortli  show- 
ing ;  and  none  of  the  following  works  were 
composed  with  a  view  to  the  press.  To  amuse 
himself  with  the  little  creations  of  his  own 
fancy,  amid  the  toil  and  fatigues  of  a  laborious 
life  ;  to  transcribe  the  various  feelings,  the 
loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears,"  in  his 
own  breast :  to  find  some  kind  of  counterpoise 
to  the  struggles  of  a  world,  always  an  alien 
scene,  a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind — 
these  were  his  motives  for  courting  the  Muses, 
and  in  these  he  found  poetry  to  be  its  own  re- 
ward. 

Now  that,  he  appears  in  the  public  character 
of  an  author,  he  does  it  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling. So  dear  is  fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe, 
that  even  he,  an  obscure,  nameless  Bard,  shrinks 
aghast  at  the  thought  of  being  branded  as— An 
impertinent  blockhead,  obtruding  his  non 
on  the  world  ;  and,  because  he  can  make  a  shift 
to  jingle  a  few  doggerel  Scotch  rhymes  to- 
B 


gether,  looking  upon  himself  as  a  poet  of  no 
small  consequence,  forsooth  ! 

It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  poet, 
Shenstone,  whose  divine  elegies  do  honour  to 
our  language,  our  nation,  and  our  species,  that 
"  Humility  has  depressed  many  a  genius  to  a 
hermit,  but  never  raised  one  to  fame  !"  If  any 
critic  catches  at  the  word  genius,  the  author 
tells  him  once  for  all,  that  he  certainly  looks 
upon  himself  as  possessed  of  some  poetic  abili- 
ties, otherwise  his  publishing  in  the  manner  he 
has  done,  would  be  a  manoeuvre  below  the 
worst  character,  which,  he  hopes,  his  worst 
enemy  will  ever  give  him.  But  to  the  genius 
of  a  Ramsay,  or  the  glorious  dawnings  of  the 
poor  unfortunate  Fergusson,  he,  with  equal  un- 
affected sincerity,  declares,  that,  even  in  his 
highest  pulse  of  vanity,  he  has  not  the  most 
distant  pretensions.  These  two  justly  admired 
Scotch  poets  he  has  often  had  in  his  eye  in  the 
following  pieces  ;  but  rather  with  a  view  to 
kindle  at  their  flame  than  for  servile  imitation. 

To  his  Subscribers,  the  author  returns  his 
most  sincere  thanks.  Not  the  mercenary  bow 
over  a  counter,  but  the  heart-throbbing  grati- 
tude of  the  bard,  conscious  how  much  he  owes 
to  benevolence  and  friendship,  for  gratifying 
him,  if  he  deserves  it,  in  that  dearest  wish  of' 
every  poetic  bosom — to  be  dislingished.  lie 
begs  his  readers,  particularly  the  Teamed  and 
the  polite,  who  may  honour  him  with  a  perusal, 
that  they  will  make  every  allowance  for  edu- 
cation and  circumstances  of  life  ;  but  if,  after 
a  fair,  candid,  and  impartial  criticism,  he  shall 
stand  convicted  of  dulness  and  nonsense,  let 
him  be  done  by  as  he  would  in  that  case  do 
by  others — let  him  be  condemned,  witiiout 
mercy,  to  contempt  and  oblivion. 


jj^UIQA^IQXI 


SECOND  EDITION  OF  THE 


POEMS  FORMERLY  PRINTED. 


NOBLEMEN  AND   GENTLEMEN 

OF  THE 

CALEDONIAN  HUNT. 


My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 
A  Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  the  name,  and 
whose  highest  ambition  is  to  sing  in  his  Coun- 
try's service — where  shall  he  so  properly  look 
for  patronage  as  to  the  illustrious  names  of  his 
native  Land  ;  those  who  bear  the  honours  and 
inherit  the  virtues  of  their  Ancestors?  The 
Poetic  Genius  of  my  Country  found  me,  as  the 
prophetic  bard  Elijah  did  Elisha — at  the 
plough  ;  and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over 
me.  She  bade  me  sing  the  loves,  the  joys,  the 
rural  scenes  and  rural  pleasures  of  my  native 
soil,  in  my  native  tongue  :  1  tuned  my  wild, 
artless  notes,  as  she  inspired — She  whispered 
me  to  come  to  this  ancient  Metropolis  of  ( !ale- 
donia,  and  lay  my  Songs  under  your  honoured 
protection ;  I  now  obey  her  dictates. 

Though  much  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I 
do  not  approach  you,  my  Lords  and  Gentle- 
men, in  the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank 
you  for  past  favours ;  that  path  is  so  hackneyed 
by  prostituted  learning,  that  honesl  rusticity  is 
ashamed  of  it.  Nor  do  I  present  this  Address 
with  the  venal  soul  of  a  servile  Author,  look- 
ing for  a  continuation  of  those  favours  ;  I  was 
bred  to  the  Plough,  and  am  independent.  I 
come  to  claim  the  common  Scottish  name  with 
you,  my  illustrious  Countrymen ;  and  to  tell 
the  world  that  I  glory  in  the  title.  1  come  to 
congratulate  my  Country,  that  the  blood  of  her 


ancient  heroes  still  runs  uncontaminatcd ;  and 
that  from  your  courage,  knowledge,  and  public 
spirit,  she  may  expect  protection,  wealth,  and 
liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I  come  to  proffer  my 
warmest  wishes  to  the  Great  Fountain  of  Ho- 
nour, the  Monarch  of  the  Universe,  for  your 
welfare  and  happiness. 

When  you  go  forth  to  waken  the  Echoes,  in 
the  ancient  and  favourite  amusement  of  your 
forefathers,  may  Pleasure  ever  be  of  your  party ; 
and  may  Social  Joy  await  your  return  :  When 
harassed  in  courts  or  camps  with  the  jostlings 
of  bad  men  and  bad  measures,  may  the  honest 
consciousness  of  injured  worth  attend  your  re- 
turn to  )'our  native  Seats  ;  and  may  Domestic 
Happiness,  with  a  smiling  welcome,  meet  you 
at  your  gates  !  May  corruption  shrink  at  your 
kindling  indignant  glance ;  and  may  tyranny 
in  the  Ruler,  and  licentiousness  in  the  People, 
equally  find  you  an' inexorable  foe  ! 
I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
With  the  sincerest  gratitude, 
and  highest  respect, 
My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 
Your  most  devoted  humble  servant, 


ROBERT  BURNS 


Edinburgh, 

April  4, 1787. 


©11 


CHIEFLY   SCOTTISH. 


THE    TWA    DOGS, 


'Twas  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle, 
That  bears  the  name  o'  Auld  King  Coil, 
Upon  a  bonnie  day  in  June, 
When  wearing  thro'  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs  that  were  na  tlirang  at  liame, 
Forgather'd  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I'll  name,  they  ca'd  him  Ccesar, 
Was  keepit  for  Ins  Honour's  pleasure : 
His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Show'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs ; 
But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 
Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  Cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar, 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar ; 
But  though  he  was  o'  high  degree, 
The  fient  a  pride,  na  pride  had  he ; 
But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin, 
Ev'n  wi'  a  tinkler-gypsey's  messin. 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  tho'  e'er  sae  duddie, 
But  he  wad  stawn't,  as  glad  to  see  him, 
And  stroan't  on  stanes  an'  liillocks  wi'  liim. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 
A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 
Wha  for  his  friend  an'  comrade  had  him, 
And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him, 
After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,* 
Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  how  lang. 

He  was  a  gash  an'  faithfu'  tyke, 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face, 
Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  towzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black ; 
His  gawcie  tail,  wi'  upward  curl, 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdies  wi'  a  svvurl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'  ither, 
An'  unco  pack  an'  tliick  thegither ; 

*  Cuchullin's  dog  in  Ossian's  Fingal. 


Wi'  social  nose  whyles  snuff'd  and  snowkit, 
Whyles  mice  an'  moudieworts  they  howkit ; 
Whyles  scour 'd  awa'  in  lang  excursion, 
An'  worry 'd  ither  in  diversion ; 
Until  wi'  damn  weary  grown, 
Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down, 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o'  the  creation. 

CAESAR. 

I've  aften  wonder 'd,  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 
An'  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw 
What  way  poor  bodies  liv'd  ava. 

Our  Laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 
His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a'  his  stents ; 
He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel ; 
His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 
He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse ; 
He  draws  a  bonnie  silken  purse 
As  lang's  my  tail,  whare,  thro'  the  steeks, 
The  yellow  letter'd  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  it's  nought  but  toiling, 
At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling ; 
An'  tho'  the  gentry  first  are  stechin, 
Yet  ev'n  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  and  siclike  trashtrie, 
That's  littie  short  o'  downright  wastrie. 
Our  Whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 
Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner, 
Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  Honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian' : 
An'  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
I  own  it's  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,Ccesar,  whyles  they're  fash't  eneugh ; 
A  cottar  howkin  in  a  sheugh, 
Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin  a  dyke, 
Baring  a  quarry,  and  sic  like, 
Himself,  a  wife,  ho  thus  sustains, 
A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans, 
An'  nought  but  his  han'  darg,  to  keep 
Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  an'  rape. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


An'  when  thoy  moot  wi'  sair  disasters, 
Like  loss  o'  health,  or  want  o'  masters, 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 
An'  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  an'  hunger; 
But,  how  it  comes,  I  never  kenn'd  yet, 
They're  maistly  wonderl'u'  contented; 
An'  buirdly  chiels,  an'  clever  huzzies, 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 

C^SAR. 


But  then  to  see  how  ye're  negleckit, 
How  huff'd,  and  cuff  d,  and  disrespeckit ! 
L — d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  liltlc 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  an'  sic  cattle; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  fo'k, 
As  1  wad  by  a  slinking  brock. 

I've  notic'd  on  our  Laird's  court-day, 
An1  mony  a  time  my  heart's  been  wae, 
Poor  tenant  bodies  scant  o1  cash, 
How  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash : 
J  le'll  stamp  an'  threaten,  curse  an'  swear, 
He'll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear; 
While  they  maun  staun',  wi'  aspect  humble, 
An'  hear  it  a',  an'  fear  an'  tremble. 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches ; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  bo  wretches  ? 

LUATH. 

They're  nae  sae  wretched's  ane  wad  think : 
Tho'  constantly  on  poortith's  brink : 
They're  sae  accustom'd  wi'  the  sight, 
The  view  o't  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  an'  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
They're  ay  in  less  or  mair  provided ; 
An'  tho'  fatigu'd  wi'  close  employment,, 
A  blink  o'  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives, 
Their  grushie  weans  an'  faithfu'  wives; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fire-side. 

An'  whylea  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy; 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 
To  mend  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs: 
Theyll  talk  o1  patronage  and  priests, 

Wi'tond] Eurj  in  their  breasts, 

Or  toll  what  new  taxation's  comin, 
An'  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  London. 

As  hleak-fac'd  Hallowmass  returns, 
Thoy  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 
When  rural  life,  o'  ev'ry  station, 
Unite  in  common  recreation ; 


1  Love  blinks,  WTit  slaps,  an'  social  Mirth, 
Forgets  there's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream, 
An'  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam; 
The  luntin  pipe,  an'  sneeshin  mill, 
Are  handed  round  wi'  richt  guid  will; 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 
The  young  anes  rantin  thro'  the  house,— 
My  heart  has  been  sae  lain  to  see  them, 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said, 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play'd. 
There's  monie  a  creditable  stock, 
O1  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo'k, 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch, 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thinks  to  knit,  himsel  the  faster 
In  favour  wi'  some  gentle  master, 
Wha,  aiblins,  thrang  a-parliamentin, 
For  Britain's  guid  liis  saul  indentin — 

CiESAR. 


Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ; 
Fur  Britain's  guid!  guid  faith!  I  doubt  it; 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him, 
An'  saying  aye  or  no's  they  bid  him, 
At  operas  an'  plays  parading, 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading; 
Or  may  be,  in  a  frolic  daft, 
To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a  waft, 
To  make  a  tour,  an'  tak  a  whirl, 
To  learn  bon  ton,  an'  see  the  warl'. 


There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails ; 
Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  rout, 
To  thrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi'  nowt; 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 
Wh-re-hunting  among  groves  o'  myrtles 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  wratcr, 
To  mak  himsel  look  fair  and  fatter, 
An'  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 
Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 
For  Britain's  guid !  for  her  destruction! 
Wi'  dissipation,  feud,  an'  faction. 


LUATH. 


Hech  man  !  dear  Sirs !  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate ! 
Are  we  sae  foughten  an'  harass'd 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

O  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 
An'  please  thcmscls  wi'  kintra  sports, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


It  wad  for  ev'ry  anc  be  better, 
The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  mid  the  Cotter  ! 
For  thae  frank,  ranlin,  raniblin  billies, 
Fient  liaet  o'  them's  ill-hearted  fellows ; 
Except  for  breakin  o'  their  timmer, 
Or  speakin  lightly  o'  their  liniiner, 
Or  shootin  o'  a  hare  or  moor-cock, 
The  ne'er  a  bit  they're  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Cccsar, 
Sure  great  folk's  life's  a  life  o'  pleasure? 
Nac  cauld  nor  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them, 
The  vera  thought  o't  need  na  fear  them. 


CiESAR. 

L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am, 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 

It's  true  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 
Thro'  winter's  cauld,  or  simmer's  heat ; 
They've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An'  fill  auld  age  wi'  gripes  an'  granes  : 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools, 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 
They  make  enow  themselves  to  vex  them ; 
An'  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them, 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 
A  country  fellow  at  the  plough, 
His  acres  till'd,  he's  right  eneugh  ; 
A  kintra  lassie  at  her  wheel, 
Her  dizzens  done,  she's  unco  weel : 
But  Gentlemen,  an'  Ladies  warst, 
Wi'  ev'ndown  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 
They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  an'  lazy ; 
Tho'  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy  ; 
Their  days,  insipid,  dull,  an'  tasteless  ; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang  an'  restless ; 
An'  e'en  their  sports,  their  balls  an'  races, 
Their  galloping  thro'  public  places. 
There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an'  art, 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 
The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches, 
Then  sowther  a'  in  deep  debauches ; 
Ac  night  they're  mad  wi'  drink  an'  wh-ring, 
Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 
The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 
As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters  ; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither, 
They're  a'  run  deils  an'  jads  thegither. 
Whyles  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  an'  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty  ; 
Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuks 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictur'd  beuks ; 
Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard, 
An'  cheat  like  onie  unhang'd  blackguard. 

There's  some  exception,  man  an'  woman ; 
But  this  is  Gentry's  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight, 
An'  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night ! 
The  bum-clock  humm'd  wi'  lazy  drone  ; 
The  kye  stood  rowtin  i'  the  loan  ; 


When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoiced  they  were  na  men  but  dogs  ; 
An'  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 
Resolv'd  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


SCOTCH  DRINK. 


Gie  him  strong  drink,  until  he  wink, 

That's  sinking  in  despair  ; 
An'  liquor  guid  to  fire  hisbluid, 

Thai's  press'd  wi'  grief  an'  care  ; 
There  let  him  bouse,  an'  deep  carouse, 

Wi'  bumpers  flowing  o'er, 
Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts, 

An'  minds  his  griefs  no  more. 

Solomon's  Proverbs  xxxi.  6,  7. 


Let  other  poets  raise  a  fracas 

'Bout  vines,  an'  wines,  an'  drunken  Bacchus, 

An'  crabbit  names  an'  stories  wrack  us, 

An'  grate  our  lug, 
I  sing  the  juice  Scots  bear  can  mak  us, 

In  glass  or  jug. 

O  thou,  my  Muse  !  guid  auld  Scotch  Drink : 
Whether  thro'  wimpling  worms  thou  jink, 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o'er  the  brink, 

In  glorious  faem, 
Inspire  me,  till  I  lisp  and  wink, 

To  sing  thy  name ! 

Let  husky  Wheat  the  laughs  adorn, 
An'  Aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 
An'  Pease  and  Beans  at  e'en  or  morn, 

Perfume  the  plain, 
Leeze  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o'  grain ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood, 
In  souple  scones,  the  wale  o'  food  ! 
Or  tumblin  in  the  boiling  flood 

Wi'  kail  an'  beef; 
But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart's  blood, 

There  thou  shines  chief. 

Food  fills  the  wame,  an'  keeps  us  livin ; 
Tho'  life's  a  gift  no  worth  receivin, 
When  heavy  dragg'd  wi'  pine  an'  gricvin, 

But,  oil'd  by  thee, 
The  wheels  o'  life  gae  down-hill,  scrievin, 

Wi'  rattlin  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o'  doited  Lear ; 
Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  droopin  Care ; 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  Labour  sair, 
At's  weary  toil, 

Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 


Aft,  clad  in  massy  siller  weed, 
\\  i'  ( icntles  tliou  erects  thy  head  ; 
Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need, 

The  poor  man's  wine 
His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread, 

Thou  kitchens  fine. 


Thou  art  the  life  o'  public  haunts  ; 
But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants  ? 
Ev'n  godly  meetings  o'  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspir'd, 
When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Arc  doubly  fir'd. 


That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 
O  sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in  ! 
Or  reekin  on  a  New-year  morning 

In  cog  or  bicker, 
An'  just  a  wee  drap  sp'ritual  burn  in, 

An'  gusty  sucker  ! 


"When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 
An'  ploughmen  gather  wi'  their  graith, 
O  rare  !  to  see  thee  fizz  an  freath 

V  tli'  luggit  caup  ! 
Then  Burnewin*  comes  on  like  death 
At  every  chaup. 


Nae  mercy,  then,  for  aim  or  steel  ; 
The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel, 
Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel, 

The  strong  forehammcr, 
Till  block  an'  studdic  ring  an'  reel 

Wi'  dinsome  clamour. 


When  skirlin  weanies  see  the  light, 
Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright, 
How  fumblin  euifs  their  dearies  slight ; 

Wae  worth  the  name ! 
Nao  howdie  gets  a  social  night, 

Or  piack  frao  them. 


When  necbors  anger  at  a  plea, 
An'  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be, 
How  easy  can  the  barley  tree 

Cement  the  quarrel  ! 
It's  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer's  fee 

To  taste  the  barrel. 


*  Burnewin — burn-thc-wind—lUc   Blacksmith 
appropriate  title.    E. 


Alake  !  that  e'er  my  Muse  has  reason 
To  wytc  her  countrymen  wi'  treason  ! 
But  monio  daily  weet  Ibeir  weason 

Wi5  liquors  nice, 
An'  hardly,  in  a  winter's  season, 
E'er  spier  her  price. 


Wac  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash! 
Fell  source  o'  monie  a  pain  an'  brash 
Twins  monie  a  poor,  doylt,  drunken  hash, 

O'  half  his  days 
An'  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland's  cash 
To  her  warst  facs. 


Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well  1 
Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I  tell, 
Poor  plackless  deevils  like  mysel ! 

It  sets  you  ill, 
Wi'  bitter,  deartlifu'  wines  to  mell, 
Or  foreign  gill. 


May  gravels  round  his  blather  wrench, 
An'  gouts  torment  liim  inch  by  inch, 
Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi'  a  glunch 

O'  sour  disdain, 
Out  owre  a  glass  o'  whisky  punch 

Wi'  honest  men. 


O  Whisky  !  saul  o'  plays  an'  pranks  ! 
Accept  a  Bardie's  humble  thanks  I 
When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 
Are  my  poor  verses  ! 
Thou  comes — they  rattle  i'  their  ranks 
At  ithcr's  a — s ! 


Thee,  Ferintosh  !  O  sadly  lost  ! 
Scotland,  lament  frae  coast  to  coast  i 
Now  colic  grips,  an'  barkin  hoast 

May  kill  us  a' ; 
For  royal  Forbes'  charter'd  boast 

Is  ta'en  awa I 


Thae  curst  horse-leeches  o'  the  Excise, 
Wha  mak  the  Whisky  Stells  their  prize  '. 
Haud  up  thy  han',  Deil  !  ance,  twice,  thrice  ! 

There,  seize  the  blinkers  I 
And  bake  them  up  in  brunstano  pies 

For  poor  d — n\l  drinkers. 


Fortune  !  if  thou'll  but  gie  me  sfill 
Hale  brceks,  a  scone,  and  Whisky  gill, 
An'  rowth  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a'  the  rest, 
An'  deal't  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

Directs  thec  best. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


TIIE  AUTHOR'S 


EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER* 

TO    THE 

SCOTCH  REPRESENTATIVES, 

IN   THE 
HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 


Dearest  of  Distillation  !  last  and  best 

How  art  thou  lost ! 

Parody  on  Milton. 


Ye  Irish  Lords,  ye  Knights  an'  Squires, 
Wha  represent  our  bxughs  an'  shires, 
An"  doucely  manage  our  affairs 

In  parliament, 
To  you  a  simple  Poet's  prayers 

Are  humbly  sent. 

Alas !  my  roupet  Muse  is  hearse ! 
Your  honors'  hearts  wi'  grief  'twad  pierce, 
To  see  her  sittin  on  her  a — 

Low  i'  the  dust, 
An'  scriechin  out  prosaic  verse, 

An'  like  to  brust '. 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 
Scotland  an'  me's  in  great  affliction, 
E'er  sin'  they  laid  that  curst  restriction, 

On  Aquavitm ; 
An'  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction, 
An'  move  their  pity. 

Stand  forth,  an'  tell  yon  Premier  Youth, 
The  honest,  open,  naked  truth : 
Tell  him  o'  mine  an'  Scotland's  drouth, 

His  servants  humble ! 
The  muckl'e  decvil  blaw  ye  south, 

If  ye  dissemble! 

Does  ony  great  man  glunch  an'  gloom? 
Speak  out,  an'  never  fash  your  thumb ! 
Let  posts  an'  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wi'  them  wha  grant  'em : 
If  honestly  they  canna  come, 

Far  better  want  e'm. 


In  gath'ring  votes  you  were  na  slack ; 
Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack  ; 
Ne'er  claw  your  lug,  an'  fidge  your  back, 

An'  hum  an'  haw ; 
But  raise  your  arm,  an'  tell  your  crack 

Before  them  a'. 

*  This  was  written  before  the  act  anent  the  Scotch 
Distilleries,  of  session  178G ;  for  which  Scotland  and 
the  Author  return  their  most  grateful  thanks. 


Paint  Scolland  greeting  owrc  her  thrissle; 
Her  mutchkin  stoup  as  toom's  a  wliissle: 
An'  d — mn'd  Excisemen  in  a  bussle, 

Seizin  a  Stcll, 
Triumphant  crushin't  like  a  mussel 

Or  lampit  shell. 


Then  on  the  tither  hand  present  her, 
A  blackguard  Smuggler  right  behint  her, 
An'  chcck-for-chow,  a  chuifie  Vintner, 

Colleaguing  join, 
Picking  her  pouch  as  bare  as  winter 

Of  a'  kind  coin. 


Is  there,  that  bears  the  name  o'  Scot, 
But  feels  his  heart's  bluid  rising  hot, 
To  see  his  poor  auld  Mither's  pot 

Thus  dung  in  staves, 
An'  plunder'd  o'  her  hindmost  groat 

By  gallows  knaves  ? 


Alas !  I'm  but  a  nameless  wight, 
Trode  i'  the  mire  clean  out  o'  sight ; 
But  could  I  like  Montgornries  fight, 

Or  gab  like  Boswell 
There's  some  sark-necks  I  wad  draw  tight, 

An'  tie  some  hose  well. 


God  bless  your  Honors,  can  ye  see't, 
The  kind,  auld,  cantie  Carlin  greet, 
An'  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

An'  gar  them  hear  it, 
An'  toll  them  wi'  a  patriot  heat, 

Ye  winna  bear  it ! 


Some  o'  you  nicely  ken  the  laws, 
To  round  the  period,  an'  pause, 
An'  wi'  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 

To  mak  harangues ; 
Then  echo  thro'  Saint  Stephen's  wa's 

Auld  Scotland's  wrangs. 


Dempster,  a  true  blue  Scot,  I'se  warran ; 
Thee,  aith-detesting,  chaste  Kilkerran  ;* 
An'  that  glib-gabbet  Highland  Baron, 

The  Laird  o'  Graham,\ 
An'  ane,  a  chap  that's  d — mn'd  auldfarran, 

Dundas  his  name. 


Erskine,  a  spunkie  Norland  billic ; 
True  Campbells,  Frederick  an'  liny; 
An'  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie  ; 

An'  monie  ithers 
Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

Might  own  for  brithore. 

Arouse,  my  boys  1  exert  your  mettle, 
To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle ; 

*  Sir  Adam  Ferguson.      E. 

tThe  present  Duke  of  Montroae.    (1800.)    E. 


8 

Or  faith !  Ill  wad  my  new  pleugh-pettlc, 
'  Ye'll  see't,  or  lang, 
She'll  teach  you,  wi'  a  reekin  whittle, 
Anithei  sang. 


Tliis  while  she's  been  in  crankous  mood, 
Her  lost  Militia  fir'd  her  bluid  ; 
(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Play'd  her  that  pliskie  !) 
An'  now  she's  like  to  rin  red-wud 

Ahout  her  Whisky. 

An'  L — d,  if  anco  they  pit  her  till't, 
Her  tartan  petti'. .at  shell  kilt, 
An'  durk  an1  pistol  at  her  belt, 

She'll  tak  the  streets, 
An'  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt, 

P  th'  lirst  she  meets ! 


For  G — d  sake,  Sirs!  then  speak  her  fair, 
An1  straik  her  canine  wi'  the  hair, 
An'  to  the  muckle  house  repair, 

UP  instant  speed,' 
An'  strive  wi'  a'  your  Wit  and  Lear, 
To  get  remead. 


Yon  ill-tongu'd  tinkler,  Charlie  For, 
May  taunt  you  wi'  his  jeers  an'  mocks ; 
But  gie  hiin't  hot,  my  hearty  cocks ! 

E'en  cowe  the  caddie ; 
An'  send  him  to  his  dicing  box 

An'  sportin  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o'  auld  Boconnoclc's 
I'll  he  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bonnocks, 
An'  drink  his  health  in  auld  Name  Tinnoelts* 

Nine  times  a-week, 
If  he  some  scheme,  like  ten  an1  winnock's, 

Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 
I'll  pledge  my  ait li  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 
He  need  na  fear  their  foul  reproach 
Nor  erudition, 
Yon  mixtie-maxtie  queer  hotch-potch, 
The  Coalition. 


Auld  Scotland  has  a  rauelc  tongue; 
She's  just  a  devil  wi'  a  rung; 
An'  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  tak  their  part, 
Tho'  by  the  neck  she  should  be  strung, 

She'll  no  desert. 


An'  now,  ye  chosen  Fire-and-Forty, 
May  still  your  Mithcr's  heart  support  yc ; 


*  A  worthy  old  Hostessof  the  Author's  hi  Mauchline, 
where  i»e  sometimes  studied  I'olitics  over  a  glass  of 
guid  auld  Scotch  Drink. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Then,  though  a  Minister  grow  dorty, 

An' kick  your  place, 

Ye'll  snap  your  fingers,  poor  an'  hearty, 
Before  his  face. 


God  bless  your  Honours  a'  your  days, 
Wi'  sowps  o  kail  and  brats  o'  claisc, 
In  spite  o'  a'  the  thievish  kaes, 

That  haunt  St.  Jamie's! 
Yqur  humble  Poet  sings  an'  prays 

\\  bile  Rab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT. 


Let  half-starv'd  slaves,  in  warmer  skies 
See  future  wines,  rich  elust'ring,  rise; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies, 

But  hly  the  and  frisky. 
She  eyes  her  freeborn,  martial  hoys, 

Tak  art' their  Whisky. 


What  tho'  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 
Whilo  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty  charms; 
When  wretches  range,  in  famish'd  swarins, 

The  scented  groves, 
Or  hounded  forth,  dishonour  arms 

lit  hungry  droves. 


Their  gun's  a  burden  on  their  shouther 
They  downa  bide  the  stink  o'  powther; 
Their  hauldcst  thought's  a  hank'ring  swither 

To  stan'  or  rin, 
Till  skelp — a  shot — they're  all',  a'  throwthcr, 

To  save  their  skin. 


But.  bring  a  Scotsman  &ae  his  hill, 

Clap  in  bis  cheek  a  I  lighland  gill, 
Say,  such  is  royal  George's  will, 

An'  there's  the  foe, 
He  has  nae  thought  hut  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow. 


Nac    cauld,  faint-hearted  doublings  tease 
him; 
Death  comes,  wi'  fearless  eye  lie  sees  him  ; 
Wi'  bluidy  hand  awelcomegies  him  : 

An'  when  In'  fa's, 
His  latest  draught  o'  breathin  lea'es  liim 
In  fauit  huzzas. 


Sages  their  solemn  een  may  stcek, 
An'  raise  a  philosophic  reek, 
And  physically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  and  season ; 
But  tell  me  Wliisky's  name  in  Greek, 

I'll  tell  the  reason. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  Mither  ! 
Tho'  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leather, 
Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o'  heather, 

Ye  tine  your  dam ; 
Freedom  and  Whisky  gang  thegithcr  ! 

Tak  aft' your  dram. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.* 


A  robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 

Hid  crafty  Observation ; 
And  secret  hung,  with  poison'd  crust, 

The  dirk  of  Defamation  : 
A  mask  that  like  the  gorget  show'd, 

Dye-varying  on  the  pigeon  ; 
And  for  a  mantle  large  and  broad, 

He  wrapt  him  in  Religion. 

Hypocrisy  a-la-mode. 


I. 


Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 

An'  snuff  the  caller  air, 
The  rising  sun  owre  Gulston  muirs, 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin  ; 
The  hares  were  hirplin  down  the  furs, 

The  lav'rocks  they  were  chantin 

Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

n. 

As  lightsomely  I  glowr'd  abroad, 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay, 
Three  Hizzies,  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin  up  the  way  ; 
Twa  had  manteelcs  o'  dolefu'  black, 

But  ane  wi'  lyart  lining  ; 
The  third,  that  gaed  a  wee  a-back, 

Was  in  the  fashion  shining 

Fu'  gay  that  day. 

in. 

The  twa  appcar'd  like  sisters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  an'  claes  ! 
Their  visage,  wither'd,  lang,  an'  thin, 

An'  sour  as  ony  slaes  : 

*  Holy  Fair  is  a  common  phrase  in  the  West  of 
Scotland  for  a  Sacramental  occasion. 

B  2 


Tho  third  cam  up,  hap-stcp-an'-lowp, 

As  light  as  ony  Iambic, 
An'  wi'  a  curchic  low  did  stoop, 

As  soon  as  e'er  she  saw  me, 

Fu'  kind  that  day. 

IV. 

Wi'  bannet  aff,  quoth  I, "  Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me ; 
I'm  sure  IVe  seen  that  bonnie  face, 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye." 
Quo'  she,  an'  laughin  as  she  spak, 

An'  taks  me  by  the  hands, 
"  Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gi'en  the  feck 

Of  a'  the  ten  commands 

A  screed  some  day. 

V. 

"  My  name  is  Fun — your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae  ; 
An'  this  is  Superstition  here, 

An'  that's  Hypocrisy. 
I'm  gaun  to  *********  Holy  Fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffin  : 
Gin  ye'll  go  there,  yon  runkl'd  pair, 

We  will  get  famous  laughin 

At  them  this  day." 

VI. 

Quoth  I, "  With  a'  my  heart,  111  do't : 

I'll  get  my  Sunday's  sark  on 
An'  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot ; 

Faith,  we'se  hae  fine  remarkin  !" 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time 

An'  soon  I  made  me  ready  ; 
For  roads  were  clad,  frae  side  to  side, 

Wi'  monie  a  wearie  body, 

In  droves  that  day 

VII. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin  graith, 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cotters ; 
There,   swankies  young,   in    braw    braid- 
claith, 

Are  springin  o'er  the  gutters. 
The  lasses,  skelpin  barefit,  thrang, 

In  silks  an'  scarlets  glitter  ; 
Wi'  siveet-milk  cheese,  in  monie  a  whang, 

An' furls  bak'd  wi'  butter 

Fu'  crump  that  day. 

vm. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glowr  Black  Bonnet  throws, 

An'  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show, 

On  ev'ry  side  they're  gathrin, 
Some  carrying  dales,  some  chairs  an'  stools, 

An'  some  are  busy  blethrin 

Right  loud  that  day. 


10 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


IX. 


Hero  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  show'rs, 

An'  screen  ourkintra  Gentry, 
There,  racer  Jess,  an'  twa-three  wh-res, 

Are  blinkin  at  the  entry. 
Here  sits  a  raw  of  tittlin  jades, 

Wi'  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck 
An'  there  a  batch  of  wabster  lads, 

Blackguarding  frac  K ck 

For  fun  this  day. 


X. 


Here  some  are  thinkin  on  their  sins, 

An'  some  upo'  their  claes  ; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyl'd  liis  shins, 

Anither  sighs  an' praj    : 
On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi'  ecrew'd  up  grace-proud  faces  ; 
On  that  a  set  o'  chaps  at  watch, 

Thraiic  winkin  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  that  day. 

XI. 


O  happy  is  that  man  an'  blest ! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him  ! 
Wliase  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best, 

Comes  clinkin  down  beside  him  ! 
Wi'  arm  repos'd  on  the  chair  back, 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him  '. 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An's  loot'  upon  her  bosom 

Unken'd  that  day. 

xn. 


Now  a1  the  congregation  o'er, 

Is  silent  expectation  ; 
For  ******  spcels  the  holy  door, 

Wi'  tidings  o'  d-mn-t — n. 
Should  Uornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o'  G —  present  bun, 
The  vera  eight  o'  *  *  *  *  *'s  face, 

To's  ain  hot  liamc  had  sent  him 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

xni. 

Hear  how  he  clears  Ihe  points  o'  faith, 

Wi'  ratlin  an'  wi'  thumpin  ! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 

He'sstampin  an'  be'sjumpin  ! 
His  lengtheh'd  chin,  his  turn'd  up  snout, 

His  eldritch  squeel  and  gestures, 
Oh  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout, 

Like  cantharidian  plasters, 

On  sic  a  day  ! 


XIV. 


But,  hark  !  the  tent  has  chang'd its  voice ; 

There's  peace  an'  rest  nae  langcr  : 
For  a'  the  recdjudges  rise, 

They  carina  sit  for  anger. 
*****  opens  out  liis  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals  ; 
An'  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 

To  srie  the  jars  an'  barrels 

A  lift  that  day. 

XV. 


What  signifies  his  barren  shine 

<  >f  moral  pow'rs  and  reason  ? 
His  English  style,  an'  gesture  fine, 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season. 
Like  Socrates  or  Antonim; 

Or  some  auld  pagan  Heathen, 
The  moral  man  he  docs  define, 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That's  right  that  day. 

XVI. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 
Airainst  sic  poison'd  nostrum  ; 

*  *  *  *  *i  frae  the  water-fit, 
Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 
Sec,  up  he's  got  the  word  o'  G — -, 
An'  meek  an'  mim  hasview'd  it, 
While  Common-Sense  has  laYn  the  road, 
An'  all,  an'  up  the  Cowgate,* 

Fast,  fast,  that  day. 

XVH. 

Wee  ******,  niest,  the  Guard  relieves, 

An'  Orthodoxy  raibles, 
Tho'  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes, 

An'  thinks  it  auld  wives'  fables  : 
But,  faith  !  the  birkie  wants  a  Manse, 

So,  cannily  he  hums  them  ; 
Altho'  his  carnal  wit  an'  sense 

Like  hafBins-ways  o'ercomes  him 
At  tunes  that  day. 

xvni. 

Now  butt  an*  ben,  the  Change-house  fills, 

Wi'  yill-caup  Commentators; 
Here's  crying  out  for  bakes  and  "ills, 

An'  there  the  pint  stowp  clatters  ; 
While  thick  an'  IhraiiM'.  an'  loud  an'  lang, 

Wi'  Logic  an'  wi'  Scripture, 
They  raise  a  din,  that  in  the  end, 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

O'  wrath  that  day. 

*  A  street  so  called,  which  faces  the  lent  in 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


11 


XIX. 


Lcczo  me  on  Drink !  it  gies  us  mair 

Than  either  School  or  College : 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  panrrs  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be't  whisky  gill,  or  penny  whcep, 

Or  ony  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails  on  drinking  drop, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

XX. 

The  lads  an'  lasses  blythely  bent 

To  mind  baith  saul  an'  body, 
Sit  round  the  table  weel  content, 

An'  steer  about  the  toddy. 
On  this  ane's  dress,  an'  that  ane's  leuk, 

They're  making  observations; 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk, 

An'  formin  assignations, 

To  meet  some  day. 

XXI. 

But  now  the  L — d's  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin, 
An'  echoes  back  return  the  shouts : 

Black  ******  is  na  spairin  : 
His  piercing  words,  like  Higliland  swords, 

Divide  the  joints  an'  marrow  ; 
His  talk  o'  H-ll,  where  devils  dwell, 

Our  vera  sauls  does  harrow* 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

XXII. 


A  vast,  unbottom'd,  boundless  pit, 

Fill'd  fou  o'  lowin  brunstane, 
Whase  ragin  flame,  an'  scorchin  heat, 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whun-stane ! 
The  half  asleep  start  up  wi5  fear, 

An'  think  they  hear  it  roarin, 
When  presently  it  does  appear, 

'Twas  but  some  neebor  snorin 

Asleep  that  day. 

xxm. 


Twad  be  owre  lang  a  tale,  to  tell 

How  monie  stories  past, 
An'  how  they  crowded  to  the  yill 

When  they  were  a'  dismist ; 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  an'  caups, 

Amang  the  furms  an'  benches; 
An'  cheese  an'  bread  frae  women's  laps, 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches, 

An'  dawds  that  day. 


Shakspeare's  Uamlet. 


XXIV. 


In  comes  a  gaucie  gash  Guidwife, 

An'  sits  down  by  the  fire, 
Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  an'  her  knife. 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 
The  auld  Guidmen  about  the  grace, 

Frac  tide  to  side  they  bother, 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays, 

An'  gi'es  them't  like  a  tether, 

Fu'  lang  that  day. 

XXV. 

Wacsucks !  for  liim  that  gets  naes  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething ! 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claithing  ! 
O  wives,  be  mindfu',  ancc  yoursel, 

How  bonnie  lads  ye  wanted, 
An'  dinna,  for  a  kebbuck-heel, 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day ! 

XXVI. 


Now  Clinkumbell,  wi'  rattlin  tow, 

Begins  to  jow  an'  croon ; 
Some  swagger  hame,  the  best  they  dow, 

Some  wait  the  afternoon. 
At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a  blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon  : 
Wi'  faith  an'  hope  an'  love  an'  drink, 

They're  a'  in  famous  tune, 

For  crack  that  day. 


XXVII. 


How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 

O'  sinners  and  o'  lasses ! 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gin  night  are  gane, 

As  saft  as  ony  flesh  is. 
There's  some  are  fou  o'  love  divine ; 

There's  some  are  fou  o'  brandy ; 
An'  monie  jobs  that  day  begin, 

May  end  in  Houghmagandie 

Some  ither  day. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 
And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn'd, 
Ev'n  Ministers,  they  hae  been  kenn'd 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  wind,  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail't  wi'  Scripture. 


12 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


But  this  that  I  am  gaun  to  tell, 
Which  lately  on  a  riighl  befel, 
Is  just  as  tine's  the  Deil's  in  h-11 

Or  Dublin  city : 
That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel 

'S  a  mucldo  pity 


The  Clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 

I  was  na  fou,  but  jusl  had  plenty  ; 

1  staclier'd  wliyles,  but  yet  took  tent  ay 

To  free  the  ditches  ; 
An'  hillocks,  stanes,  an'  bushes,  kenn'd  ay 

Frae  ghaists  an'  witches. 


The  rising  moon  began  to  glow'r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre  : 
To  count  her  horns,  wi'  a1  my  pow'r, 

1  set  mysel ; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I  cou'd  na  tell. 


I  was  come  round  about  the  liill, 
And  toddlin  down  on  Willie's  mill, 
Setting  my  staff  wi'  a1  my  skill, 

To  keep  mc  sicker 
Tho'  leeward  whylcs,  against  my  will, 

I  took  a  bicker. 


1  there  wi'  Something  did  forgather, 

That  put  me  hi  an  eerie  swither  ; 

An  awfu'  sithe,  out-owre  ae  showther, 

Clear-dangling,  hang : 
A  three-tae'd  leister  on  the  ither 

Lay,  large  an'  lang. 


Its  stature  seem'd  lang  Scotcli  ells  twa, 
The  queerest  shape  that  e'er  I  saw, 
For  fient  a  wame  it  had  ava ! 

And  then,  its  shanks, 
They  were  as  thin,  as  sharp  an'  sma' 

As  cheeks  o'  branks. 


"  Guid-een,"  quo'  I ;  "  Friend !  hae  ye  been 

mawiu, 
When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin  ?"* 
It  seem'd  to  mak  a  kind  o'  stan,' 

Bui  naething  spak ; 
At  lengtli,  says  I,  "  Friend,  whare  ye  gaun, 
Will  ye  go  back?" 


It  spak  rijht  howc, — "  My  name  is  Drath, 
But  bt!  na  fley'd." — Quoth  I,  "  Guid  faith, 
Ye're  may  be  come  In  stap  my  breath  ; 

But  tent  mc,  billic  : 
I  red  ye  wcel,  tak  care  o'  ska  it  1 1, 

Sec,  there's  a  gully  !" 


•Thia  rencounter  happened  in  seed-time,  1783. 


"  Guidman,"  quo'  lie,  "  put  up  your  whittle, 
I'm  no  design'd  to  try  its  mettle; 
But  if  I  did,  I  wad  bo  kittle 

To  be  mislear'd, 
I  wad  na  mind  it,  no,  that  spittle 

Out-owre  my  beard. 


"  Weel,  weel !"  says  I,  "  a  bargain  be't ; 
Come,  gies  your  hand,  an'  sac  we're  greo't ; 
We'll  ease  our  shanks  an'  tak  a  seat, 

Come,  gies  your  news ; 
This  while*  ye  hae  heen  monic  a  gate 

At  monic  a  house." 


"  Ay,  ay !"  quo'  he,  an'  shook  his  head, 
"  It's  e'en  a  lang,  lang  time  indeed 
Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread, 

An'  choke  the  breath : 
Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread, 

An'  sac  maun  Death. 


"  Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 

Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

An'  nionie  a  scheme  in  vain's  been  laid, 

To  stap  or  scar  me ; 
Till  ane  Hombook''sf  ta'en  up  the  trade, 

An'  faith,  he'll  waur  me. 

"  Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i'  the  Clachan, 
Dcil  mak  his  king's-hood  in  a  spleuchan ! 
He's  grown  sae  well  acquaint  wi'  Buchan\ 

An'  ither  chaps, 
That  weans  haud  out  their  fingers  laughin 

And  pouk  my  hips. 


"  See,  here's  a  sithe,  and  there's  a  dart, 
They  hae  piere'd  mony  a  gallant  heart; 
But  Doctor  Hornbook,  wi'  his  art, 

And  cursed  skill, 
Has  made  them  baith  not  wortli  a  f — t, 

Damn'd  haet  they'll  kill, 


"  'Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gaen, 

I  throw  a  noble  throw  at  ane  ; 

Wi'  less,  I'm  sure,  I've  hundreds  slain  ; 

But  deil-ma-care, 
It  just  play'd  dirl  on  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 


"  Hornbook  was  by,  wi'  ready  art, 
And  had  sae  fortify 'd  the  part, 


*  An  epidemical  fever  was  then  raging  In  that 
country. 

t  This  gentleman,  Dr.  JTomhooh,  Is  professionally, 
a  brother  of  the  Sovereign  Order  of  the  Ferula;  but, 
by  intuition  and  inspiration,  is  at  once  an  Apothecary, 
Surgeon,  and  Physician. 

X  Buchan's  Domestic  Medicine. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


13 


That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart, 

It  was  sac  blunt, 

Fient  haet  o't  wad  hae  pi-rc'd  the  heart 
Of  a  kail-riuit. 


"  I  drew  my  sitho  in  sic  a  fury, 
I  ncarhand  cowpit  wi'  my  hurry 
But  yet  the  bauld  Apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock ; 
I  might  as  weel  hae  try'd  a  quarry 

0'  hard  whin  rock. 


"  Ev'n  them  he  canna  get  attended, 
Alto'  their  face  he  ne'er  had  kend  it, 
J -ist hi  a  kail-blade,  and  send  it, 

As  soon  he  smells't, 
Baith  their  disease,  and  what  will  mend  it 

At  once  he  tells't. 


"  And  then  a'  doctors'  saws  and  whittles, 
Of  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  an'  mettles, 
A'  kinds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  an'  bottles, 

He's  sure  to  hae  ; 
Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 

As  A  B  C. 


"  Calces  o'  fossils,  earth,  and  trees  ; 
True  Sal-marinum  o'  the  seas  ; 
The  Farina  of  beans  and  pease, 

He  has't  in  plenty  ; 
Aqua-fontis,  what  you  please, 

■  He  can  content  ye. 


"  Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 

Urinus  Spiritus  of  capons  ; 

Or  Mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 

Distill'd  per  se ; 
Sal-alkali  o'  Midge-tail- clippings, 

And  monie  mae." 


"  Waes  me  for  Johnny  Ged"s  Hole*  now," 

Quo'  I,"  if  that  the  news  be  true  ! 

His  braw  calf-ward  whare  gowans  grew, 

Sae  white  and  bonnic, 
Nao  doubt  they'll  rive  it  wi'  the  plow  ; 

They'll  ruin  Johnie .'" 


The  creature  grain'd  an  eldritch  laugh, 
And  says,  "  Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Kirkyards  will  soon  be  till'd  enough, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear  : 
They'll  a'  be  trench'd  wi'  monie  a  sheugh 

In  twa-three  year 


'  Whare  I  kill'd  ane  a  fair  strae-death, 
By  loss  o'  blood  or  want  o'  breath, 

*  The  grave-digger 


Tliis  night  I'm  frco  to  tak  my  aith, 

That  Hornbook's  skill 

Has  clad  a  score  i'  their  last  claith, 

By  drap  an'  pill. 

r 

"  An  honest  Wabster  to  his  trade, 

Whaso  wife's   twa  nieves  were  scarce  wee 

bred, 
Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head, 

When  it  wassair; 
The  wife  slado  cannie  to  her  bed, 

But  ne'er  spak  mair. 

"  A  kintra  Laird  had  ta'en  the  batts, 
Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts, 
His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets, 

An'  pays  him  well. 
The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer  pets, 

Was  laird  himsel. 


"  A  bonnie  lass,  ye  kend  her  name, 

Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hov'd  her  wame : 

She  trusts  hersel,  to  hide  the  shame, 

In  Hornbook's  care ; 
Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame, 

To  hide  it  there. 

"  That's  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornbook's  way  ; 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day, 
Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  an'  slay, 

An's  weel  paid  for't ; 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lawfu'  prey, 

Wi'  his  d-mn'd  dirt : 

"  But,  hark  !  I'll  tell  you  of  a  plot, 
Tho'  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o't ; 
I'll  nail  the  self-conceited  Scot, 

As  dead's  a  herrin : 
Niest  time  we  meet,  I'll  wad  a  groat, 

He  gets  liis  fairin !" 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal, 

Which  rais'd  us  baith : 
I  took  the  way  that  pleas'd  myscl 

And  sae  did  Death. 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR, 

A  POEM. 

INSCRIBED  TO  J.  B*********,Esq.  AYR. 

The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  bough ; 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 
Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green 
thorn  bush ; 


14 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


The   soarin"   lark,   the   pcrcliing    red-breast 

shnll. 
Or  deep-ton'd,  plovers,  gray,  wild-whistling 

oYr  the  hill; 
Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant's  lowly  shed, 
To  I.  ttdonce  bravely  bred, 

By  early  Poverty  to  hardship  steel'd, 
And  train'd  to  arms  in  stem  .Misfortune's  field, 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes, 
nary  Swiss  of  rhymes? 
iur  hard  the  panegyric  close, 
Willi  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  Prose  ? 
No  !  though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings. 
And    throws    liis   hand    uncouthly   o'er   the 

strii 
He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  Bard, 
Fame,  honest  fame,  liis  great,  his  dear  reward. 
Still,  if  some  Patron's  gen'rous  care  he  trace, 
Skill'd  in  the  secret,  to  bestow  with  grace  ; 
When  B *********  befriends  liis  humble 

name, 
And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to  fame, 
With    heart-felt   throes  Jus  grateful    bosom 

swells, 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 


'Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter- 
hap, 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil  won-crap  ; 
Potatoe-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coming  Winter's  biting,  frosty  breath  ; 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  summer  toils, 
Unnumber'd  buds  an'  flowers'  delicious  spoils, 
Seal'd  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen 

piles, 
Are  dooin'd  by  man,  that  tyrant  o'er  the  weak, 
The   death   o'  devils   smoor'd  wi'  brimstone 

reek: 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  every  side, 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide  ; 
The  feather'd  field-mates,  bound  by  Nature's 

tie, 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie  : 
(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds, 
And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless  deeds !) 
Nae   mair   the   flower    in   field   or  meadow 

springs  ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings, 
Except  perhaps  the  Robin's  whistling  (jlee, 
Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bithalf-lang  tree  : 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days, 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the  noon-tide 

blaze, 
Wliile  thick  the  gossamour  waves  wanton  in 

the  rays. 
'Twas  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  hard, 
Unknown  and  poor,  simplicity's  reward  ; 

at,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr 
By  whim  baspir'd,  or  haply  prest  wi'  care; 
He  h  i'i  M    I  i  ik  Ins  wayward  route, 

And  down    by   Simpson's*    wheel'd  the  left 

about : 

*  A  noted  tavern  at  the  Auld  Brig  end. 


(Whether  impell'd  by  all-directing  Fate, 

To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate; 

Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 

He  wander'd  out  he   knew  not  where  nor 

why :) 
The  drowsy  Uungetm-docJ^  had  numbcr'dtwo, 
And  JVallacc  Tower*  had  sworn  the  fact  was 

true . 
The  tidc-swoln  Firth  with  sullen   sounding 

roar, 
Tlirough  the  still  night  dash'd  hoarse  along  the 

shore  : 
All  else  was  hush'd  as  Nature's  closed  e'e  ; 
The  silent  moon  shone  liigh  o'er  tower  and 

tree  : 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 
Crept,    gently    crusting,    o'er    the  glittering 

stream. — 
When,  lo  !  on  either  hand  the  hst'ning  Bard, 
The  clanging  sugh    of  whistling    wings    is 

heard  ; 
Two  dusky  forms  dart  thro'  the  midnight  air, 
Swii't  as   the  Gosi  drives    on    the    wheeling 

hare  ; 
Ane  on  th'  Auld  Bri«;  his  airy  shape  uprears, 
The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  rising  purs  : 
Our  warlock  Rhymer  instantly  descry'd 
The  Sprites  that  owre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  pre- 
side. 
(That  Bards  arc  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 
And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp'ritual  fo'k  ; 
Fays,  Spunkies,  Kelpies,  a',  they  can  explain 

them,) 
And  cv'n   the   very    deils  they  brawly  ken 

them.) 
Auld  Brig  appear'd  of  ancient  Pictish  race, 
The  vera  wrinkles  Gothic  in  liis  face  : 
He  seem'd  as  he  wi'  Time  had  warstl'd  lang, 
Yet  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 
.\"  ir  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat, 
That  he,  at  London,  frae  ane  Adams,  got; 
Jn"s  hand  live  taper    staves   as   smooth's  a 

bead, 
Wi'  virls  and  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 
The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxious 

search, 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  ev'ry  arch  ; 
It  chane'd  his  new-come  neebor  took  his  e'e, 
And  e'en  a  vex'd  and  angry  heart  had  he  ! 
Wi'  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien, 
He,  down  the  water,  gics  him  litis  guidcen : — 


AULD  BRIG. 


I  doubt  na,  frien',  yell  think  ye're  nae  sheep 

shank, 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  o'er  frae  bank  to  bank, 
But  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  auld  as  me, 
Tho'  faith  that  day,  I  doubt,  yell  never  see 


*  The  two  steeples. 
tTbe  gos-liawk,  or  falcon. 


BURNS1  POEMS. 


15 


There'll  be,  if  that  dato  come,  I'll  wad  a  bod- 

dlc, 
Somo  fowcr  whigmelceries  in  your  noddle. 

NEW  BRIG. 

Auld  Vandal,  yc  but  show  your  little  mense, 
Just  much  about  it  wi'  your  scanty  sense  ; 
Will  your  poor,  narrow  foot-path  of  a  street, 
Where  twa  wheel-barrows  tremble  when  they 

meet, 
Your  ruin'd,  formless  bulk  o'  stane  an'  lime, 
Compare  wi'  boimie  Brigs  o'  modern  time  ? 
There's  men  o'  taste  would  tak  the  Ducat- 

slream,* 
Tho'  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  an  swim, 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi'  the 

view 
Of  sic  an  ugly  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULD  BRIG. 

Conceited    gowk !    puff'd    up  wi'    windy 

pride ! 
Tliis  monie  a  year  I've  stood  the  flood  an'  tide  ; 
And  tho'  wi'  crazy  eild  I'm  sair  forfairn, 
I'll  be  a  Brig,  when  ye're  a  shapeless  cairn ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 
But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  you  better, 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a'-day  rains, 
Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains ; 
When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawl- 
ing Coil, 
Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil, 
Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland 

course, 
Or  haunted  Garpali  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Arous'd    by    blust'rmg    winds    an'    spotting 

thowes, 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  sna-broo  rowes ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps  dams,  an'  mills,  an'  brigs,  a'  to  the 

gate ; 
And  from  Glenbuck,%  down   to  the  Rolton- 

fcey,{ 
Avid  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd,  tumbling  sea ; 
Then  down  ye'll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring 

.^kies : 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost, 
That  Arcliitecture's  noble  art  is  lost ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Fine  Architecture,  trowth,  I  needs  must  say't 
o't! 
The  L — d  be  thankit  that  we've  tint  the  gate 
o't!  S 

*  A  noted  ford,  just  above  the  Auld  Brig. 

t  The  banks  of  Garpal  Water  is  one  of  the  few 
places  in  the  West  of  Scotland,  where  those  fancy- 
scaring  beings,  known  by  the  name  of  Ghaisls,  still 
continue  pertinaciously  to  inhabit. 

t  The  source  of  the  river  Ayr. 

$  A  small  landing  place  above  the  large  key. 


Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices, 
Hanging  with  threat'ningjut,  like  precipices; 
O'er  arching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves : 
Windows  and  doors,  in  nameless  sculpture 

drest, 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 
Forms  like  some  bedlam  statuary's  dream, 
The  craz'd  creations  of  misguided  whim ; 
Forms  might  be  worshipp'd  on  the  bended 

knee, 
And  still  tho  second  dread  commemd  be  free, 
Then  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or 

sea. 
Mansions  that  would  disgrace  tho  building 

tasto 
Of  any  mason,  reptile,  bird,  or  beast ; 
Fit  only  for  a  doited  Monkish  race, 
Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace, 
Or  cuiis  of  later  times,  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling  true  devotion ; 
Fancies  that  our  guid  Brugh  denies  protection, 
And  soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with  re- 
surrection ! 


AULD  BRIG. 

O  ye,  my  dear-remember'd,  ancient  yealmgs, 
Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feel- 
ings! 
Ye  worthy  Provescs,  an'  mony  a  Bailie, 
Wha  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  did  toil  ay ; 
Ye  dainty  Deacons,  and  ye  douce  Conveencrs, 
To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-clean- 
ers; 
Ye  godly  Councils  wha  hae  blest  this  town; 
Ye  godly  Brethren  of  the  sacred  gown, 
Wha  meekly  gie  your  liurdies  to  the  smiters  ; 
And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly 

Writers : 
A'  ye  douce  folk  I've  borne  aboon  the  broo, 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do  ? 
How  would  your  spirits  groan  ha  deep  vex- 
ation, 
To  see  each  melancholy  alteration ; 
And,  agonizing,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base,  degen'rate  race ! 
Nae  langer  Rcv'rend    Men,  their  country's 

glory, 
In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a  plain  braid 

story ! 
Nae  langer  thrifty  Citizens,  an'  douce, 
Meet  owre  a  pint,  or  in  the  Council-house ; 
But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  Gentry, 
The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country ; 
Men,  tliree-parts  made  by  Tailors  and  by  Bar- 
bers, 
Wha  waste  your  well-hain'd  gear  on  d — d  new 
Brigs  and  Harbours  ! 


NEW  BRIG. 

Now  haud  you  there  !  for  faith  ye'vo  said 
enough, 
And  muckle  niair  than  ye  can  mak  to  through. 


16 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


As  for  your  priesthood,  1  shall  sny  but  little, 

Corbies  and  (  7<  rgy  are  a  shot  riy^lit  kittle  : 
But  under  favour'  o"  your  langer  beard, 
Abuse  o'  Magistrates  might  weel  be  spar'd: 
To  liken  them  to  your  auld-warld  squad, 
I  must  needs  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 
I       h  r,  Wag-wits  nae  mair  can  liac  a  handle 
To  mouth  "  a  Citizen,"  a  term  o'  scandal : 
Nuo    mair    the   Couiicil    waddles    down  the 

street, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit; 
Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin  owro  hops  an' 

raisins, 
Or  gather'd  lib'ral  views  in  Bonds  and  Seisins. 
If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a  random  train]), 
Jlad  shor'd  them  with  a  glimmer  of  his  lamp, 
And  would  to  Common-sense,  for  once  bc- 

tray'd  them, 
Plain,  dull   Stupidity  slept  kindly  in  to  aid 

them. 


What   farther    clishmaclavcr   might   been 

said. 
What  bloody  wars,  if  Sprites  had  blood  to 

shed, 
No  man  can  tell ;  but  all  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  train  appear 'd  in  order  bright : 
Adown    the    glittering    stream    they    fcatly 

dane'd  ; 
Bright    to    the    moon    their  various  dresses 

glanc'd : 
They  footed  o'er  the  watry  glass  so  neat, 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 
While  arts  of  Minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 
And  soul-ennobling  Hards  heroic  ditties  sung. 
O  had  M'LaMchlan,*  thairm-inspiring  Sage, 
Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage, 
When  thro'  his  dear  Strathspeys (they  bore  with 

Highland  rage, 
Or  when  Ihey  struck  old  Scotia's  melting  airs, 
The  lover's  raptur'd  joys  or  bleeding  cares; 
How  would  his  Highland  lug  been  nobler  fir'd, 
And  ev'n  his  matchless  hand  with  liner  touch 

inspir'd ! 
No  rniess  could  tell  what  instrument  appear'd, 
Hut  all  the  soul  of  Music's  self  was  heard; 
1 1  ii  monious  concert  rung  in  every  part, 
While  simple  melody  pour'd  moving  on  tlio 

heart. 


The  Genius  of  the  Stream  in  front  appears, 
A  venerable  Chief  advane'd  in  years; 
His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies crown'd, 
His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  bound. 
Nexl  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring, 
Sweet   Female    Beauty  hand   in  hand  with 

Sprinir ; 
Then,  crown'd  with  flow'ry  hay,  came  rural 

•Toy, 
And  Summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye : 


*  A  well  known  performer  of  Scottish  music  on  the 
violin. 


All-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn, 
Led  yellow  Autumn  wreath'd  with  nodding 

corn; 
Then  Winter's  time-blcack'd  locks  did  hoary 

show, 
By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow. 
Nexl  I'ollow'd  Courage  with  his  martial  stride, 
From  where  the  Feal  wild- woody  coverts  hide ; 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 
A  female  form,  came  from  the  tow'rs  of  Stair : 
Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-lov'd  abode: 
Last,  white-rob'd  Peace,  crown'd  with  a  hazel 

wreath, 
To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death; 
At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their 

kindling  wratlu 


THE  ORDINATION. 


For  sense  tliey  little  owe  to  Frugal  Heaven.— 
To  please  the  Mob  they  hide  the  little  given. 


Kilmarnock  Wabstcrs  fidge  an'  claw 

An'  pour  your  creeshie  nations ; 
An*  ye  wha  leather  rax  an'  draw, 

( )i'a'  denominations, 
Swith  to  the  Laigh  Kirk,  ane  an'  a' 

An'  there  tak  up  your  stations ; 
Then  aff  to  B-gb — U  in  a  raw, 

An'  pour  divine  libations 

For  joy  this  day 

II. 

Curst  Common  Sense  that  imp  o'  li-ll, 

Cam  in  wi'  Maggie  Lauder  ;* 
But  O  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  aft  made  her  yell, 

An'  II  *  *  *  *  *  sair  misca'd  her; 
This  day  M'  *  *  *  ,:  *  *  *  lakes  the  flail, 

And  he's  the  boy  will  blaud  her  ! 
He'll  clap  a  shangan  on  her  tail, 

An'  set  the  bairns  to  daub  her 
Wi'  dirt  tliis  day. 

III. 

Mak  haste  an'  turn  king  David  owre, 
An'  lilt  wi'  holy  clangor; 

*  Alluding  to  a  scoffing  ballad  which  was  made  on  the 

.mlinissi.il)  of  the  late  Reverend  and  worthy  Mr.  L.  to 
lh(   Laigh  Kirk 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


17 


O'  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

An-1  skirl  up  the  liiinrror : 
This  day  the  kirk  kirks  up  a  st.oure, 

Nae  uiair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her, 
For  Heresy  is  in  her  pow'r, 

An'  gloriously  shall  whang  her 

VVi'  pith  tliis  day. 

IV. 


Come,  let  a  proper  text  be  read, 

An'  touch  it  affwi'  vigour, 
How  graceless  Hon**  lough  at  his  Dad, 

Which  made  Canaan  a  niger  ; 
Or  P1>  ineasi  drove  the  murdering  blade, 

Wi'  wh-re-abhorring  rigour  ; 
Or  Zipporah,  t  (lie  scaulcnn  jade, 

Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

1'  tlY  inn  that  day. 


There,  try  his  mettle  on  the  creed, 

And  bind  him  down  wi'  caution, 
That  Stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 

He  taks  but  for  the  fasliion ; 
An'  gie  him  o'er  the  flock,  to  feed, 

And  punish  each  transgression  ; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin, 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

VI. 


Now  auld  Kilmarnock  cock  thy  tail, 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu'  canty  ; 
Nae  mair  thou'lt  rowte  out-owre  the  dale, 

Because  thy  pasture's  scanty  ; 
For  lapfu's  large  o'  gospel  kail 

Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty, 
An'  runts  o'  grace  the  pick  an'  wale, 

No  gi'en  by  way  o'  dainty, 

But  ilka  day. 


VII. 

Nae  mair  by  Babel's  streams  we'll  weep, 

To  think  upon  our  Zion  ; 
And  lung  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin  : 
Come,  screw  the  pegs  wi'  tunefu'  cheep, 

And  o'er  the  thairrns  be  tryin ; 
Oh,  rare  !  to  sec  our  elbucks  wheep, 

An'  a'  like  lamb-tails  flyin 

Fu'  fast  this  day  ! 

*  Genesis,  chap  ix.  22.      f  Numbers,  ch.  xxv.  ver. 
t  Exodus,  ch.  iv.  ver.  25. 


VIII. 


Lang  Patronage,  wi'  rod  o'  aim, 

Has  shor'd  the  Kirk's  undoin, 
As  lately  F-nw-ck  sair  forfairn, 

I  las  proven  to  its  ruin  : 
Our  Patron,  honest  man  !  Glencaim, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin  ; 
And  like  a  godly  elect  bairn, 

He's  wal'd  us  out  a  true  ane, 

And  sound  tliis  day. 

IX. 


Now  R  ******  *  harangue  nae  mair, 

But  steek  your  gab  for  ever : 
Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  A**, 

For  there  they'll  think  you  clever  ; 
Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear, 

Ye  may  commence  a  Shaver  • 
Or  to  the  N-th-rt-n  repair, 

And  turn  a  Carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand  tliis  day. 

X. 

M  *  *  *  *  *  and  you  were  just  a  match, 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones  : 
Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  watch, 

Just  like  a  winkin  baudrons ; 
And  ay'  he  catch'd  the  tither  wretch, 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons ; 
But  now  his  honour  maun  detach, 

Wi'  a'  liis  brimstone  squadrons, 
Fast,  fast  tliis  day. 

XL 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy's  faes, 

She's  swingein  tlrro'  the  city  : 
Hark,  how  the  nine-tail'd  cat  she  plays ! 

I  vow  it's  unco  pretty  : 
There,  Learning,  with  his  Greekish  face. 

Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty  ; 
And  Common  Sense  is  gaun,  she  says, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie 

Her  'plaint  this  day. 

XII. 

But  there's  Mortality  himsel, 

Embracing  all  opinions  ; 
Hear,  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell, 

Between  his  twa  companions  ; 
See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  an'  fell, 

As  ane  were  peelin  onions  ! 
Now  there — they're  packed  affto  hell, 

And  banish'd  our  dominions, 

Henceforth  this  day. 


18 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


xin. 


O  happy  day  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter  ! 
Morality's  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  rind  quarter  : 
j^i  ******  *^  r  *****  are  the  boys, 

That  Heresy  can  torture  ; 
They'll  gie  her  on  a  rape  and  lioyso 

And  cow  her  measure  shorter 

By  th'  head  some  day. 

XIV. 

Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in, 

And  here's,  for  a  conclusion, 
To  every  New  Light*  mother's  son, 

From  this  time"forth,  Confusion  : 
If  mair  they  deave  us  with  their  din, 

Or  Patronage  intrusion, 
We'll  light  a  spunk,  and,  ev'ry  skin, 

We'lfrin  them  air"  in  fusion 

Like  oil,  somo  day. 


THE  CALF. 
TO  THE  REV.  MR.  - 


And  when  ye'ro  number'd  wi'  the  dead, 

Below  a  grassy  hillock, 
Wi'  justice  they  may  mark  your  head — 

"  Hero  lies  a  famous  Bullock .'" 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 


O  Prince !  O  Chief  of  many  throned  Powers, 
That  led  th'  embattled  Seraphim  to  war. 

Milton. 


On  his  Text,  Malachi,  ch.  iv.  ver.  2.    "  And  they 
shall  go  forth,  and  grow  up,  like  calves  of  the  stall  " 

Right,  Sir !  your  text  I'll  prove  it  true, 

Though  Heretics  may  laugh  ; 
For  instance ;  there's  yoursel  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  Calf  ! 

And  should  some  Patron  bo  so  kind, 

As  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  na,  Sir,  but  then  wo'll  find, 

Ye're  still  as  great  a  Stirk. 

But,  if  the  Lover's  raptur'd  hour 

Shall  ever  be  your  lot, 
Forbid  it,  ev'ry  heavenly  Power, 

You  e'er  should  be  a  Slot ! 

Tho',  when  some  kind  connubial  Dear, 

Your  but-and-ben  adorns, 
The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 

A  noble  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug  most  reverend  James, 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte, 
Few  men  o'  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 

To  rank  amang  tho  nowle. 

*Jfeie  Light  is  a  cant  phrase  in  the  West  of  Scotland, 
for  those  religious  opinions  which  Dr.  Taylor  of  Nor- 
wich has  defended  so  strenuously. 


O  thou  !  whatever  title  suit  thee, 
Auld  llornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an1  sootic, 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairgcs  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches. 

Hear  mc,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E'en  to  a  deil, 
To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 

An'  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  pow'r,  an'  great  thy  fame  ; 
Far  kend  and  noted  is  thy  name  ; 
An'  tho'  yon  lowin  hough's  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far ; 
An'  faith  1  thou's  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

"VVhyles,  ranging  like  a  roarin  lion, 
For  prey,  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin  ; 
Whylcs  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin, 

Tirling  tho  kirks ; 
Whylcs,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin, 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I've  heard  my  reverend  Grannie  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 
Or  where  auld-ruin'd  castles,  gray, 

Nod  to  the  moon, 
Yc  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way, 

Wi'  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon 
To  say  her  prayers,  douce,  honest  woman  . 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she's  heard  you  bummin, 

Wi'  eerie  drone  ; 
Or,  rustlin,  thro'  the  boortrecs  comin, 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ac  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 
The  Btars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin  light, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


19 


Wi'  you,  mysol,  I  gat  a  fright, 

Ayont  the  lough ; 

Yc,  like  a  rash-hush,  stood  in  sight, 

WT  waving  sujrh. 


The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 
Each  bristl'd  hair  stood  like  a  stake, 
When  wi'  an  eldritch,  stour,  quaick — quaick- 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa  ye  squattcr'd,  like  a  drake, 

On  wliistlin<r  wings. 


Let  warlocks  grim,  an1  \vithcr,d  hags, 
Tell  how  wi1  you  on  ragweed  nags 
They  skim  the  muirs,  an'  dizzy  crags, 

Wi'  wicked  speed ; 
And  in  kirk  yards  renew  their  leagues, 

Owre  howkit  dead. 


Thence  kintra  wives,  wi'  toil  an'  pain, 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain ; 
For,  oh !  the  yellow  treasure's  ta'en 

By  witching  skill ; 
An'  dawtit,  twal-pint  Hawkie's  gaen 

As  yell's  the  Bill. 


Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse, 
On  young  Guidman,  fond,  keen,  an'  crouse ; 
When  the  best  wark-lume  i'  the  house, 

By  cantrip  wit, 
Is  instant  made  no  worse  a  louse, 

Just  at  the  bit. 


When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
An'  float  the.  jinglin  icy-boord, 
Then  Water-kclpies  haunt  the  foord, 

By  your  direction, 
An'  nighted  Trav'llers  are  allur'd 

To  their  destruction. 

An'  aft  your  moss-traversing  Spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an'  drunk  is  : 
The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkeys 

Delude  his  eyes, 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 


When  Maso?is''  mystic  word  an'  grip 
In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell '. 
The  youngest  Brother  ye  wad  whip 

Affstraught  to  hell ! 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonnie  yard, 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd, 

The  raptur'd  hour, 
Swcot  on  the  fragrant,  flow'ry  swaird 

In  shady  bow'r : 


Then  you,  ye  auld,  snic-drawing  dog ! 
Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog, 
An'  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

( Black  be  your  fa'! 
An'  gicd  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 

'Maist  ruin'd  a' 


D'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz. 
Wi'  reokit  duds,  an'  rcestit  gizz, 
Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz, 

'Mang  better  fo'k, 
An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uzz 

Your  spitefu'  joke  ? 

An'  how  ye  gat  liim  i'  your  thrall, 
An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  an'  hall, 
While  scabs  an'  blotches  did  liim  gall, 
Wi'  bitter  claw, 
An'  lows'd  his  ill-tongu'd,  wicked  Scawl, 
Was  warst  ava  ? 


But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse, 
Your  wily  snares  an'  fechtin  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael*  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a'  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An'  now,  auld  Clools,  I  ken  ye're  tliinkin 
A  certain  Bardie's  rantin,  drinkin, 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin, 

To  your  black  pit; 
But,  faith  !  he'll  turn  a  corner  jinkin, 

An'  cheat  you  yet. 

But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  I 
O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men'  I 
Ye  aiblins  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  slake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake : 


DEATH  AND   DYING  WORDS 

OF 

POOR  MAILIE, 

THE  AUTHOR'S  ONLY  PET  YOWE, 

AN  UNCO  MOURJVFU'  TALE 

As  Mailie,  an'  her  lambs  thegither 
Were  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether, 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a  hitch, 
An'  owre  she  warsl'd  in  the  ditch . 

*  Vide  Milton,  Book  VI. 


20 

There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie, 
When  Hughoc*  he  cam  doytin  hy. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


\\Y  glowrin  eon,  an'  lifted  ban's, 
Poor  Hughoc  like  a  statue  stan's  ; 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 
But,  wars  my  heart!  he  could  na  mend  it! 
He  gaped  wide,  but  oaething  spak! 
At  length  Poor  MaUie  silence  brak. 


"  O  thou,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  case ! 
JM  \  dying  words  attentive  hear, 
An'  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 

"  Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep, 
As  muckle  pear  as  buy  a  sheep, 
O,  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair  ! 
But  ca'  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 
An'  let  them  wander  at  their  will ; 
So  may  his  flock  increase,  an'  grow 
To  scores  o'  lambs,  an'  packs  o'  woo' ! 

"  Tell  him,  he  was  a  master  kin', 
An'  ay  was  guid  to  me  and  mine ; 
An'  now  my  dying  charge  I  gie  him, 
My  helpless  lambs"  I  trust  them  wi'  him. 

"  O,  bid  him,  save  their  harmless  lives, 
Frae  dogs,  an'  tods,  an'  butchers'  knives  ! 
But  <ne  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 
Till  tney  be  fit" to  fend  themsel : 
An'  tent  them  duly,  e'en  an'  morn, 
'W1  teats  o1  hay  an'  rips  o'  com. 

"  An'  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  ither  vile  wanrestfu'  pets! 
To  slink  thro1  Maps,  an'  reave  an'  steal, 
At  stacks  o'  pease,  or  stocks  o'  kail. 
So  may  they,  like  their  great  Forbears, 
For  monio  a  year  come  thro"  the  sheers  : 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o'  bread, 
An'  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they're  dead. 

"  My  poor  loop-lamb,  my  son  an'  heir, 
O,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care ! 
An',  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 
To  pit  some  bavins  in  his  breast! 

An'  warn  him,  what  I  winnaname, 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes  athamc; 
An1  DO  to  rin  an'  wear  his  cloots, 
Like  ither  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

"An,  niest  my  ynirir,  silly  thing, 

Gude  keep  thee  frae  a   t'lher  string'. 

< ).  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  up 
Wi'  ony  blastit,  moorland  toop  ; 


•  A  netbor  licrd-callan. 


But  ay  keep  mind  to  moop  an'  mell, 
Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel ! 

"  And  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last  breath, 
I  lea'e  my  blcssin  wi'  you  baith : 
An"  when  you  think  upo'  your  Mither, 
Mind  to  be  kin'  to  ane  anither. 

"  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail, 
To  tell  my  master  a'  my  tale ; 
An'  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether, 
An',  for  thy  pains,  thou'se  get  my  blather. ' 

Tliis  said,  poor  Mailie  tum'd  her  head, 
An'  clos'd  her  e'en  amang  the  dead. 


POOR  MATLIE'S  ELEGY. 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 
Wi'  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose ; 
Our  bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close, 

Past  a'  remead ; 
The  last  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes ; 

Poor  Mailie  s  dead ! 

It's  no  the  loss  o'  warl's  gear, 
That  could  sac  bitter  draw  the  tear 
Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed : 
He's  lost  a  friend  and  neebor  dear, 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Thro  a'  the  town  she  trotted  by  him ; 
A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him  ; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him, 

She  ran  wi'  speed: 
A  friend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam  nigh  him, 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense, 
An'  could  behave  hcrsel  wi'  mense : 
I'll  say't,  she  never  brak  a  fence, 

Thro'  thievish  greed. 
Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spencc 

Sin'  Mailie's  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howc, 
Her  living  image  in  her  yowe, 
Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  (lie  knowe, 

For  bits  o'  bread ; 
An'  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  o'  moorland  tips, 
Wi'  tawted  kct,  an  hairy  hips; 
For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 

Frae  yont  the  Tivced 
A  bonnier J?tC4'/i  ne'er  cro:   'd  the  clips 

Than  Mailie  dead. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


21 


Wac  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wancliancic  thing— a  rape  ! 
I  niaks  guid  fellows  girn  an'  gape, 

Wi'  chokin  dread ; 
An'  Robins  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape, 

For  Mailic  dead. 

O,  a'  ye  bards  on  bonnie  Doon  ! 
An  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune  ! 
Come,  join  the  melanrliolious  croon 

O'  Robin's  reed ! 
His  heart  will  never  get  aboon  ! 

His  Mailie  dead. 


TO  J.  S****. 


Friendship !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ! 
Sweet'ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society  ! 

I  owe  thee  much. 

Blair. 


Dear  S****,  the  sleest,  paukie  thief, 
That  e'er  attempted  stealth  or  ricf, 
Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 

Owre  human  hearts ; 
For  ne'er  a  bosom  yet  was  prief 

Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  an'  moon, 
And  ev'ry  star  that  blinks  aboon, 
YeVe  cost  me  twenty  pair  o'  shoon 

Just  gaun  to  see  you ; 
And  ev'ry  ither  pair  that's  done, 

Mair  ta'en  Pm  wi'  you. 

That  auld,  capricious  carlin,  Nature, 
To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 
She's  turn'd  you  all",  a  human  creature 

On  her  first  plan, 
And  in  her  freaks,  on  ev'ry  feature, 

She's  wrote,  the  Man. 

Just  now  Iv'e  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  barmie  noddle's  working  prime 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon : 
Hae  ye  a  leisure-moment's  time 

To  hear  what's  comin  ? 

Some  rhyme,  a  ncebor's  name  to  lash  ; 
Some  rhyme  ('vain  thought!)  for needfu' cash 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  kintra  clash, 

An'  raise  a  din  ; 
For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash  ; 

1  rhyme  for  fun 


The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 
Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat, 
An'  danm'd  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But  in  requit, 
Has  bless'd  mc  wi'  a  random  shot 

O'  kintra  wit. 


This  while  my  notion's  ta'en  a  sklent, 
To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  preyti; 
But  still  the  mair  I'm  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries, "  Hoolie '. 
I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent ! 

Yell  shaw  your  folly. 


"  There's  ither  poets,  much  your  betters, 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o'  letters, 
Hae  thought  they  had  ensur'd  their  debtors, 

A'  future  ages ; 
Now  moths  deform  in  shapeless  tetters, 

Their  unknown  pages." 


Then  fareweel  hopes  o'  laurel-boughs, 
To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 
Henceforth  I'll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 

Are  whistling  thrang, 
An'  teach  the  lanely  heights  an'  howes 

My  rustic  sang. 


I'll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed, 
Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread 

Then,  all  unknown, 
I'll  lay  me  with  the  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  gone ! 


But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 
Just  now  we're  living  sound  and  hale, 
Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  care  o'er  side  ! 
And  large,  before  enjoyment's  gale, 

Let's  tak  the  tide. 


Tliis  life,  sae  far's  I  understand, 
Is  a'  enchanted,  fairy  land, 
Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand, 

That  wielded  right, 
Maks  hours,  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand, 
Dance  by  fu'  light. 


The  magic-wand  then  let  us  wield ; 
For  ance  that  five-an'-forty's  speel'd, 
See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi'  wrinkl'd  face, 
Comes  hostin,  hirplin  owre  the  field, 

Wi'  creepin  pace. 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin, 
Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin  ; 


22 


BQRNS'  POEMS. 


An'  fareweel  chccrfu'  tankards  foamin, 
An'  social  noise ; 

An'  fareweel,  dear,  deluding  woman, 
The  joy  of  joys  ! 


O  Life  !  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 
Youno'  Fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning  ! 
Cold-pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away, 
Liko  school-boys,  at  th'  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 


We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 
Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Among  the  leaves  ; 
And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 


Some,  lucky,  find  a  flow'ry  spot, 
For  which  they  never  toil'd  nor  swat ; 
They  drink  the  sweet,  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain ; 
And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  hinh  disdain. 


With  steady  aim,  some  fortune  chase  ; 
Keen  Hope  does  every  sinew  brace  ; 
Thro'  fair,  thro'  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 
And  seize  the  prey  : 
Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place, 

They  close  the  day. 


And  others,  like  your  humble  servan', 
Poor  wights  !  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin  ; 
To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin, 

They  zig-zag  on  ; 

Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  an'  starvin, 

They  aften  groan. 


Alas '.  what  bitter  toil  an'  straining— 
But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining  ! 
Is  fortune's  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E'en  let  her  gang  1 
Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 
Let's  sing  our  sang. 


My  pen  I  hero  fling  to  the  door, 
And  kneel,  "  Yo  Powers!"  and  warm  implore, 
"  Tlio1  I  should  wander  terra  o'er, 

In  ;l11  her  i Tunes, 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more, 

Ay  rowth  o'  rhymes. 


"  Cm  dreeping  roasts  to  kintra  lairds, 
Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards; 


Gio  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards, 

And  maids  of  honour 

And  yill  an'  whisky  gie  to  cairds, 

Until  they  sconner. 


"  A  title,  Dempster  merits  it ; 
A  garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt ; 
Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledger'd  cit, 

In  cent,  per  cent. 
But  gie  me  real,  sterling  wit, 

And  I'm  content. 


"  While  ye  are  pleas'd  to  keep  me  hale, 
I'll  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal, 
Be't  water-brosc,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheerfu'  face, 
As  lang's  the  muses  dinna  fail 

To  say  the  grace." 


An  anxious  e'e  I  never  throws 
Behint  my  lug,  or  by  my  nose  ; 
I  jouk  beneath  misfortune's  blows 

As  weel's  I  may  ; 
Sworn  foe  to  6orrow,  care,  and  prose, 

I  rhyme  away. 


O  ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 
Grave,  tidcless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compar'd  wi'  you — O  fool !  fool !  fool 

How  much  unlike  1 
Your  hearts  are  just  a  standing  pool, 

Your  lives,  a  dyke! 


Hae  hair-brain'd,  sentimental  traces 
In  your  unletter'd,  nameless  faces  ! 
In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray, 
But,  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 

Ye  hum  away. 


Yo  are  sae  grove, nae  doubt  ye're  wise; 
Nae  ferly  tho*  ye  do  despise 
The  hairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boys, 

Tho  rattlin  scmad  : 
I  see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes — 

— Ye  ken  the  road.- 


Whilst  I — but  I  shall  haud  me  there— 
Wi'  you  I'll  scarce  gang  ony  where  — 
Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair, 

But  quat  my  sang, 
Content  wi'  you  to  mak  a  pair, 

Whare'er  I  gang 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


23 


A    DREAM. 


Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  tho  statute  blames  with 

reason  ; 
But  surely  dreams  were  ne'er  indicted  treason. 


[On  reading,  in  the  public  papers,  the  LaureaVs  Ode, 
with  the  other  parade  of  .June  4,  1786,  the  author 
was  no  sooner  dropped  asleep,  than  he  imagined  liim- 
selfto  the  birth-day  levee  ;  and  in  his  dreaming  fancy 
made  the  following  Address.] 


I. 


Guid-morning  to  your  Majesty ! 

May  heav'n  augment  your  blisses, 
On  every  new  birth-day  ye  see, 

A  humble  poet  wishes ! 
My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee, 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is, 
Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Amang  the  birth-day  dresses 

Sae  fine  this  day. 


II. 


I  see  ye're  complimented  thrang, 

By  monie  a  lord  and  lady ; 
"  God  save  the  king !"  's  a  cuckoo  sang 

That's  unco  easy  said  ay  ; 
The  poets,  too,  a  venal  gang, 

Wi1  rhymes  weel-tum'd  and  ready, 
Wad  gar  you  trow  ye  ne'er  do  wrang, 

But  ay  unerring  steady, 

On  sic  a  day. 

III. 

For  me !  before  a  monarch's  face, 

Ev'n  there  I  winna  flatter  ; 
For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place, 

Am  I  your  humble  debtor  : 
So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter ; 
There's  monie  waur  been  o'  the  race, 

And  aiblins  ane  been  better 

Than  you  this  day. 

IV. 

'Tis  very  true  my  sov'reign  king, 

My  skill  may  weel  bo  doubted: 
But  facts  are  chicls  that  winna  ding, 

An'  downa  be  disputed  : 
Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing, 

Is  e'en  right  reft  an'  clouted, 
And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string, 

An'  less,  will  gang  about  it 

Titan  did  ae  day 


V. 


Far  be't  frae  mo  that  I  aspire 

To  blanio  your  legislation, 
Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire, 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation ! 
But,  faith  !  I  muckle  doubt,  my  Sire, 

Ye'vo  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a  barn  or  byre, 

Wad  better  fill'd  their  station 

Than  courts  yon  day. 


VI. 


And  now  ye've  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 

Her  broken  shins  to  plaster 
Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester ; 
For  me,  thank  God,  my  life's  a  lease, 

Nae  bargain  wearing  faster, 
Or,  faith !  I  fear,  that  wi'  the  geese, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I'  the  craft  some  day. 


VII. 


I'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  he  enlarges, 
(An'  Will's  a  true  guid  fallow's  get, 

A  name  not  envy  spairges,) 
That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

An'  lessen  a'  your  charges ; 
But,  G-d-sake  !  let  nae  saving-Jit 

Abridge  your  bonnie  barges 

An'  boats  this  day. 


vni. 


Adieu,  my  Liege !  may  freedom  geek 

Beneath  your  high  protection ; 
An'  may  ye  rax  corruption's  neck, 

And  gie  her  for  dissection  ! 
But  since  I'm  here,  I'll  no  neglect, 

In  loyal,  true  affection, 
To  pay  your  Qween,  with  due  respect, 

My  fealty  an',  subjection 

This  great  birth-day. 


IX. 


Hail,  Majesty  Most  Excellent ! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye, 
Will  ye  accept  a  compliment 

A  simple  poet  gies  ye  ? 
Thae  bonnie  bairntime,  Heav'n  has  lent, 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent, 

For  ever  to  release  yo 

Frae  care  that  day. 


24 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


X. 


XV. 


For  vou,  young  potentate  o'  \V , 

I  tell  your  Highness  fairly, 
Down  pleasure's  si  ream,  wi' swelling  sails, 

Fin  tauld  ye're  driving  rarely  ; 
But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 

An'  curse  your  folly  sairly, 
That  e'er  ye  brak  Diana's  pales, 

Or,  rattrd  dice  wi'  Charlie, 

By  night  or  day. 

XI. 

Yet  aft  a  ragged  cowtcs  been  known 

To  make  a  noble  aiver ; 
So,  ye  may  doucely  fill  a  throne, 

For  a'  their  clish-ma-claver  : 
There,  him*  at  Agincourt  wha  shone, 

Few  better  were  or  braver ; 
And  yet,  wi'  funny,  queer  Sir  John,i 

He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  monie  a  day. 

XII. 

For  you,  right  rev'rend  O , 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 
Although  a  ribban  at  your  lug 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer : 
As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 

That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 
Then,  swith !  an'  get  a  wife  to  hug, 

Or,  trouth !  ye'll  stain  the  mitre 

Some  luckless  day. 

xni 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Brecks,  I  learn, 

Vc've  lately  come  athwart  Iter; 
A  glorious  gatieyJi  stem  an'  stern, 

Well  rigg'd  for  Venus  barter  ; 
But  first,  hang  out,  that  she'll  discern 

Your  hymenial  charter, 
Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple  airn, 

An1,  large  upo'  her  quarter, 

Come  full  that  day. 

XIV. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonnie  blossoms  a', 

Vc  royal  lasses  dainty 
I  [(  av'n  mak  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw, 

An'  gie  you  lads  a-plenty  : 
But  sneer  nae  British  boys  awa,' 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  ay  ; 
An'  German  gentles  are  but  *ma', 

They're  better  just  than  waul  ay 
On  onie  day. 


*KinR  Henry  V. 
t  Sir  John  Falstaff:  vide  Shakspcare. 
|  Alluding  to  tho  newspaper  account  of  a  certain 
royal  sailor's  amour. 


God  bless  you  a' !  consider  now, 

Ye're  unco  muckle  dautet; 
But,  ere  the  course  o'  life  be  thro', 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet  : 
An'  1  hac  seen  their  eoggie  fou, 

That  yet  hac  tarrow't  at  it ; 
But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 

Fu'  clean  that  day. 


THE    VISION. 


DUAN  FIRST.* 

The  sun  had  clos'd  the  winter  day, 
The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 
An'  hunger'd  maukin  ta'en  her  way 

To  kail-yards  green, 
While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 

Wliare  she  has  been. 

The  thresher's  weary  Jlingin-trce 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me ; 
And  wh«n  the  day  had  clos'd  liis  e'e, 

Far  i'  the  west, 
Ben  i'  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-cheek, 
I  sat  and  cy'd  the  spewing  reek, 
That  filld'd,  wi'  boast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auld  clay  biggin ; 
An'  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 

About  the  riggin. 

All  in  this  mottle,  misty  clime, 
I  backward  mus'd  on  wasted  time, 
How  I  had  spent  my  youthfu'  prime, 

An'  done  nae-thing, 
But  stringin  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 
I  might,  by  this,  hae  led  a  market, 
Or  strutted  in  a  bank  an'  clarkit 

My  cash  account . 
While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit, 

Is  a'  th'  amount. 

1  started,  mutt'ring,  blockhead!  coof! 
And  hcav'd  on  high  my  waukit  loof, 
To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  roof, 

Or  somo  rash  aith, 
That  I,  henceforth,  would  be  rhyme-proof 

Till  my  last  breath — 

*  Duav,  a  term  of  Ossinn's  for  llic  different  divisions 
of  a  digressive  poem.  See  his  Cath-Loda,vo\.  ii.  of 
M'Plierson's  translation. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


25 


When  click  '.  the  string  the  snick  did  draw 
And  jec  !  the  door  gaed  to  the  wa' ; 
An'  by  my  ingle-lowc  I  saw. 

Now  bleezin  bright, 
A  tight,  outlandish  Ilizzie,  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight. 


Ye  need  na  doubt,  I  held  my  whisht ; 
The  infant  aith,  half-form'd,  was  crusht ; 
1  glowr'd  as  eerie's  I'd  been  dusht 

In  some  wild  glen  ; 
When  sweet,  like  modest  worth,  she  blusht, 

And  stepped  ben. 


Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  hollij-boughs 
Were  twisted,  gfacefu',  round  her  brows  ; 
I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token  ; 
An'  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Wou'd  soon  been  broken. 


A  "  hair-brain'd,  sentimental  trace," 
Was  strongly. marked  in  her  face  ; 
A  wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her ; 
Her  eye,  cv'n  turn'd  on  empty  space, 

Bcam'd  keen  with  honour. 


Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen  ; 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen ; 
And  such  a  leg  !  my  bonnie  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it ; 
Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 

Nane  else  came  near  it. 


Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 
My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew  ; 
Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling  threw, 

A  lustre  grand  ; 
And  seem'd,  to  my  astonish'd  view, 

A  well  known  land. 


Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 
There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost : 
Here,  tumbling  billows  fnark'd  the  coast, 

With  surging  foam  ; 
There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  boast, 

The  lordly  dome. 


Here,  Doon  pour'd   down   his   far-fetch'd 

floods  ; 
There,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds  : 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro'  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore ; 
And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds, 

With  seeming  roar. 


Low,  in  a  sandy  valley  spread, 
An  ancient  borough  rear'd  her  head  ; 
C2 


Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  boasts  a  race, 

To  ev'ry  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polish'd  grace. 

By  stately  tow'r  or  palace  fair 
Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 
Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

1  could  discern  ; 
Some  seem'd  to  muse,  some  scem'd  to  dare, 

With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel, 
To  see  a  race*  heroic  wheel, 
And  brandish  round  the  deep-dy'd  steel 

In  sturdy  blows  ; 
While  back-recoiling  scem'd  to  reel 

Their  stubborn  foes. 

His  country's  saviour,t  mark  him  well ! 
Bold  Richardton'si.  heroic  swell ; 
The  chief  on  SarkJ  who  glorious  fell, 

In  high  command  ; 
And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 

His  native  land. 

There,  where  a  scepter'd  Piclish  shadc,|| 
Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  mark'd  a  martial  race,  portray'd 

In  colours  strong  ; 
Bold,  soldier-featur'd,  undismay'd 

They  strode  along. 

Thro'  many  a  wikl,  romantic  grove,1T 
Near  many  a  hermit-fancy 'd  cove, 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love) 

In  musing  mood, 
An  aged  judge,  I  saw  him  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe** 
The  learned  sire  and  son  I  saw, 
To  Nature's  God  and  Nature's  law 

They  gave  their  lore, 
This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 

That,  to  adore. 

*  The  Wallaces.         t  William  Wallace. 

$  Adam  Wallace,  of  Ricliardton,  cousin  to  the  im- 
mortal preserver  of  Scottish  independence. 

§  Wallace,  Laird  of  Ci  aigie,  who  was  second  in  com- 
mand, under  Douglas  earl  of  Ormond,  at  the  famous 
battle  on  the  banks  of  Sark,  fought  anno  1448.  That 
glorious  victory  was  principally  owing  to  the  jiidicions 
conduct,  and  intrepid  valour  of  the  gallant  Laird  of 
Craigie,  who  died  of  his  wounds  after  the  action. 

||  Coilus,  king  of  the  Picts,  from  whom  the  district  of 
Kyle  is  said  to  take  its  name,  lies  buried,  as  tradition 
says,  near  the  family-seat  of  the  Montgomeries  of  CoiJ's- 
ficld,  where  his  burial-place  is  still  shown. 

IT  Barskimming  the  seat  of  the  Lord  Justice -Clerk. 

**  Catrinc,  the  seat  of  the  late  doctor  and  present 
professor  Stewart. 


26 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Brydone's  brave  ward*  I  well  could  spy, 
Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye  ; 
Who  call'd  on  fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 
Where  many  a  patriot  name  on  high, 

And  hero  shone. 

DUAN  SECOND. 


With  musing-deep,  astonish'd  stare, 
I  view'd  the  heavenly-seeming/air  ; 
A  whispering  throb  did  witness  bear, 

Of  kindred  sweet, 
When  with  an  elder  sister's  air 

She  did  me  greet. 

"All  hail !  my  own  inspired  bard  ! 
In  mo  thy  native  muse  regard  ! 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Thus  poorly  low  ! 
I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 

As  we  bestow. 

"  Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a  light  aerial  band, 
Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 

Harmoniously, 
As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

Their  labours  ply. 

"  They  Scotia's  race  among  them  share ; 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare  ; 
Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 

Corruption's  heart : 
Some  teach  the  bard,  a  darling  care, 

The  tuneful  art. 

"  'Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore, 
They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits  pour  ; 
Or,  'mid  the  venal  senate's  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand, 
To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore, 

And  grace  the  hand. 

"  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 
Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 
They  bind  the  wild  poetic  rage 
In  energy, 
Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Full  on  the  eye. 

"  Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young  ; 
Hence  Dempster's  zeal-inspired  tongue  ; 
Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beallie  sung 

His  l  Minstrel  lays ;' 
Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung, 

The  sceptic's  bays. 

"  To  lower  orders  are  assign'd 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind, 

•  Colonel  Fullarton. 


iThc  rustic  Bard,  the  lab'ring  Hind 
The  Artisan  ; 
All  chuse,  as  various  they're  inclin'd, 
The  various  man. 


"  When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 
The  threat'ning  storm  some  strongly  rein, 
Somo  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain 

With  tillage-skill ; 
And  somo  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 

Blythe  o'er  the  lull. 


"  Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  wile ; 
Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile  ; 
Some  soothe  the  lab'rer's  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gains, 
And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 

His  cares  and  pains. 


"  Some,  bounded  to  a  district-space, 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race, 
To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  Bard ; 
And  careful  note  each  op'ning  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard. 

"  Of  these  am  I — CoiJa  my  name ; 
And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim, 
Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame, 

Held  ruling  pow'r  : 
I  mark'd  thy  embryo  tuneful  ilame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

"  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gazo 
Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 
Thy  rudely  caroll'd  chiming  phrase, 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 
Fir'd  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  tunes. 


"  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar  ; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  thro'  the  sky, 
I  saw  grim  nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 


"  Or,  when  the  deep  green-mantl'd  earth 
Warm  chcrish'd  ev'ry  flow'ret's  birth, 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  ev'ry  grove, 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  gen'ral  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 


"  When  ripen'd  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Call'd  forth  the  reaper's  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  lcavo  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 


"  When    youthful    love,    warm-blusliing 
strong, 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 
Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th'  adored  Name, 
I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 


BURNS' POEMS.  27 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID, 

OR,  THE 

RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 


"  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure's  devious  way, 
Misled  by  fancy's  meteor  ray. 

By  passion  driven ; 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven. 


"  I  taught  thy  manners-painting  strains, 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  fame  extends : 
And  some,  the  pride  of  Collet's  plains, 

Become  my  friends. 


"  Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  show, 
To  paint  with  Thomson's  landscape-glow  ; 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe, 

With  Shcnstone's  art  • 
Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 

Warm  on  the  heart. 


"  Yet  all  beneath  th'  unrivall'd  rose, 
The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 
Tho'  large  the  forest's  monarch  throws 

His  army  shade, 
Vet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows, 
Adown  the  glade. 


"  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine ; 
Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine  : 
And  trust  me,  not  PotosCs  mine, 

Nor  kings'  regard, 
Can  give  a  bliss  o'ermatcliing  thine, 

A  rustic  Bard. 


"  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan  ; 
Preserve  Vie  Dignity  of  Man, 

With  soul  erect ; 
And  trust,  the  Universal  Plan 

Will  all  protect. 


"  Jind  wear  thmi  this'1'' — she  solemn  said, 
And  bound  the  Holly  round  my  head : 
The  polish'd  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 

In  light  away. 


My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 

And  lump  thorn  ay  thegltfaer ; 
The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool, 

The  Rigid  Wise  anithcr : 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 

May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff  in ; 
go  nc>cr  a  fellow-creature  slight 

For  random  fits  o'  daffin. 

Solomon.— Eccles.  ch.  vii.  ver.  1G. 


1. 


O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 

Sac  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebor's  faults  and  folly  ! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Supply'd  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  heapet  happer's  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter 

H. 

Hear  me,  yo  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals  ; 
I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 

Would  here  propone  defences, 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

m. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compar'd, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer, 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ ; 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

IV. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gallop  : 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail, 

It  maks  an  unco  leeway. 


28 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


See  social  life  and  trice  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Till,  quite  transmugrifyM,  they're  grown 

Debauchery  and  drinking : 
O,  would  they  stay  to  calculato 

Th'  eternal  consequences; 
Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  taste, 

D-mnation  of  expenses ! 

VI. 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Ty'd  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  ye  gie  poor  frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  ; 
A  dear  lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug, 

Yc're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

VII. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wrong ; 

To  step  aside  is  human  : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

vm. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tono, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


TAM  SAMSON'S*  ELEGY. 


An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 
Fope. 


Has  auld  K*******  *  *  seen  the  Deil  ? 
Or  great  M'  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  +  thrawn  his  heel ! 

*  When  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out  last  muir- 
fowl  season,  he  supposed  It  ws  .    phrase, 

"  tin:  last  fif  his  fields  ;"  and  expressed  an  ardent  wish 
10  die  and  be  buried  in  the  muirs.  On  this  hint  the 
author  composed  his  elegy  and  epitaph. 

t  A  certain  preacher,  a  great  favourite  with  the  mil- 
lion,   Vide  the  Ordination,  stanza  II. 


Or  R*  *****  *  again  grown  weel,* 

To  preach  an'  read. 

"Na,waur  than  a  !"  cries  ilka  cliiel, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 


K*  ********  jang  may  gmnt,  an'  grane 
An'  sigh,  an'  sab,  an'  greet  her  lane, 
An'  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  an'  wean, 
In  mourning  weed ; 
To  death,  she's  dearly  paid  the  kane, 

Tain  Samson's  dead ! 


The  bretliren  of  the  mystic  level 
May  hing  their  head  in  wocfu'  bevel, 
While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 

Like  ony  bead  ; 
Death's  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  devel : 

Tarn  Samson's  dead  ! 


When  winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 
And  binds  the  mire  like  a  rock ; 
When  to  the  louglis  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi'  gleesome  speed, 
Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ? 

Tarn  Samson's  dead ! 


He  was  the  king  o'  a'  the  core, 
To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore, 
Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  r6ar 

In  time  of  need  ; 
But  now  he  lags  on  death's  li  og-score, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  1 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 
And  trouts  bedropp'd  wi'  crimson  hail, 
And  eels  weel  kenn'd  for  souple  tail, 

And  geds  lor  greed, 
Since  dark  in  death's  Jiih-creel  we  wail 

Tam  Samson  dead  ! 


Rejoice, ye  birring  paitricks  a'; 
Ye  cootie  moorcocks,  crousely  craw  ; 
Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu'braw, 

Withouten  dread; 
Your  mortal  fac  is  now  awa', 

Tam  Samson's  dead . 

That  woefu'  morn  be  ever  mourn'd, 
Saw  him  in  shootin  graith  adorn 'd, 
While  pointers  round  impatient  burn'd, 

Frae  couples  freed; 
But,  och !  ho  gaed  and  ne'er  return'd ! 

Tam  Samson's  dead! 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters; 
In  vain  the  gout  his  ancles  fetters; 

*  Another  preacher,  an  equal  favourite  with  the  few 
who  was  at  that  time  ailing.  For  him,  see  also  theOr- 
dination,  stanza  IX. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


29 


In  vain  the  bums  came  down  like  waters, 
An  acre  braid ! 

Now  ev'ry  auld  wife,  grectin,  clatters, 

Tain  Samson's  dead ! 


Owre  many  a  weary  has  ho  limpit, 
An'  ay  the  tither  shot  lie  thumpit, 
Till  coward  death  behind  him  iumpit, 

A\T  deadly  feide ; 
Now  he  proclaims,  wi'  tout  o'  trumpet, 

Tarn  Samson's  dead ! 


When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 
He  recl'd  his  wonted  bottle-swagger, 
But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 

Wi'  weel  aim'd  heed ; 
"  L — d,  five !"  he  cry'd  an'  owre  did  stagger ; 

Tarn  Samson's  dead ! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourn'd  a  brither ; 
Bk  sportsman  youth  bemoan'd  a  father ; 
Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 

Marks  out  his  head, 
Whare  Burns  has  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether, 

Tarn  Samson' 's  dead .' 


There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest ; 
Perhaps  upon  his  mould'ring  breast 
Some  spitefu'  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest, 

To  hatch  an'  breed ; 
Alas !  nae  mair  he'll  them  molest ! 

Tarn  Samson's  dead ! 


When  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave, 
Three  volleys  let  his  mein'ry  crave 

O'  pouther  an'  lead, 
Till  Echo  answer  frae  her  cave, 

Tain  Samson's  dead ! 


Hcav'n  rest  his  saul,  whare'er  he  bo  ! 
Is  ilT  wish  o'  monie  mae  than  me ; 
He  had  twa  faults,  or  may  be  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 
Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we : 

Tarn  Samson's  dead ! 


THE  EPITAPH. 


Tam  Samson's  weel-worn  clay  hero  lios, 
Ye  canting  zealots,  spare  him  '. 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 
Ye '11  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 


PER  CONTRA. 


Go,  fame,  an'  canter  like  a  filly 
Thro'  a'  the  streets  an'  neuks  o'  Killici* 
Tell  ev'ry  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin, 
For  yet,  unskaith'd  by  death's  gleg  gullie, 
Tarn  iSumsoii's  livin. 


IIALLOWEEN.f 


The  following  Poem  will,  by  many  readers,  be  well 
enough  understood  ;  but  for  the  sake  of  those  who 
are  unacquainted  with  the  manners  and  traditions 
of  the  country  where  the  scene  is  cast,  notes  arc  ad- 
ded, to  give  some  account  of  the  principal  charms  and 
spells  of  that  night,  so  big  with  prophecy  to  the  pea- 
santry in  the  west  of  Scotland.  The  passion  of  pry- 
ing into  futurity  makes  a  striking  part  of  the  history 
of  human  nature  in  its  rude  slate,  in  all  ages  and 
nations;  and  it  maybe  some  entertainment  to  a  phi- 
losophic mind,  if  any  such  should  honour  the  author 
with  a  perusal,  to  see  the  remains  of  it,  among  tho 
more  unenlightened  in  our  own. 


Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  ttain  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

Goldsmith. 
I. 

Upon  mat  night,  when  fairies  light, 

On  Cassilis  Downans%  dance, 
Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance ; 
Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta'en, 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams ; 
There,  up  the  cove$  to  stray  an'  rove 

Amang  the  rocks  and  streams 

To  sport  that  night. 

II. 

Amang  the  bonnie  winding  banks, 
Where  Doon  rins,  wimpling  clear, 

Where  Bruce||  ance  rul'd  the  martial  ranks, 
An'  shook  his  Carrick  spear, 

*  Killic  is  a  phrase  the  country-folks  sometimes  usg 
for  Kilmarnock. 

t  Is  thought  to  be  night  when  witches,  devils,  and 
other  mischief-making  beings,  are  all  abroad  on  their 
baneful,  midnight  errands;  particularly  those  aerial 
people  the  Fairies,  are  said  on  that  night,  to  hold  a 
grand  anniversary. 

t  Certain  little,  romantic,  rocky,  green  hills,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Earls  of 
Cassilis. 

§  A  noted  cavern  near  Colean-house,  called  The 
Cove  of  Colean  ;  which,  as  Cassilis  Downans,  i<s  famed 
in  country  story  for  being  a  favourite  haunt  of  fairies. 

||  The  famous  family  of  that  name,  the  ancestors  of 
Robert,  the  great  deliverer  of  Ms  country,  were  Earls 
of  Carrick. 


30 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Some  merry,  friendly,  rountra  folks, 

Together  did  convene, 
To  bum  their  nits,  an'/ira  their  stocks, 

An'  haud  their  Hallow  en 

Fu'  blythc  that  night. 

m. 

The.  lasses  feat,  an1  cleanly  neat, 

Majr  braw  than  when  they're  fine  ; 
Their  faces  blythe,  fu'  sweetly  kythe, 

Hearts  leal, an1  warm  an'  kin': 
The  lads  sae  trig,  wi'  wooer-babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten, 
Some  unco  blate,  an'  some  wi'  gabs, 

Gar  lasses'  hearts  gang  startin 

Whiles  fast  at  night. 

IV. 

Then  first  and  foremost,  thro'  the  kail, 

Their  slocks*  maun  a'  besought  ance  ; 
They  steek  their  ecu'  an'  graip  an'  wale, 

For  muckle  anes  an'  straught  anes. 
Foor  hav'rel  Will  fell  affthe  drift, 

An'  wander'd  thro'  the  bow-kail, 
An'  pow't  for  want  o'  better  shift, 

A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night. 

V. 

Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane, 

They  roar  and  cry  a'  throu'ther ; 
The  vera  wee  things,  todlin,  rin 

Wi'  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther  i 
An'  gif  the  custocs  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi1  joctelegs  they  taste  them ; 
Syne  coziely,  aboon  the  door, 

Wi'  cannie  care  they  place  them 

To  lie  that  night. 

VI. 

The  lasses  staw  frao  'mang  them  a' 
To  pou  their  stalks  o'  corn  ;t 

*The  first  ceremony  of  Halloween  is,  pulling  each  a 
stock,  or  plant  of  kail.  They  must  go  out,  hand  in 
hand,  with  eyes  shut,  and  pull  the  first  they  meet  with  : 
Its  being  big  or  little,  straight  or  crooked,  is  prophetic 
of  the  size  and  shape  of  the  grand  object  of  all  their 
spells — the  huaband  or  wife.  If  any  yird,  or  earth,  stick 
to  the  root,  that  is  tocher,  or  fortune  ;  and  the  tasto  of 
the  custoc,  that  is,  the  heart  of  the  stem,  is  indicative 
of  the  natural  temper  and  disposition.  Lastly,  the 
stems,  or,  to  give  them  their  ordinary  appellation,  the 
runts,  are  placed  Bomevvherc  above  the  head  of  the 
door:  and  the  christian  names  of  the  people  whom 
chance  brings  into  the  house,  are,  according  to  the 
pMurity  of  placing  the  runts,  the  names  in  question. 

t  They  go  to  the  barn-yard  and  pull  each,  at  three 
several  limes,  a  stalk  of  oats.  If  the  third  stalk  wants 
the  top-piclrfc,  that  is,  the  grain  at  the  top  of  the  stalk, 
the  party  in  question  will  come  to  the  marriage-bed 
3ny  thing  but  a  maid. 


But  Rah  slips  out,  an'  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn : 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  an'  fast ; 

Loud  skirl'd  a'  the  lasses; 
Buther  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kiultlin  in  the  fause-house* 

Wi'  him  that  night. 


vn. 

The  auld  guidwife's  weel  hoordet  nilsi 

Are  round  an'  round  divided, 

An'  monie  lads'  and  lasses'  fates, 

Are  there  that  night  decided: 

Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side 

An'  burn  thegither  trimly ; 
Some  start  aw  a  wi*  saueie  pride, 
And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 

Fu'  high  that  night. 


VIII 

Jean  slips  in  twa,  wi'  tentie  e'e ; 

Wha  'twas  she  wadna  tell ; 
But  this  is  Jock,  an'  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  hersel : 
He  bleez'd  owre  her,  an'  she  owrc  him, 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ; 
Till  futf !  he  started  up  the  lum, 

And  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 

To  see't  that  night. 


IX. 

Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  bow-kail  runt, 

Was  brunt  wi'  primsie  Mallic; 
An'  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  druul, 

To  be  compar'd  to  Willie  : 
Mall's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridefu'  fling, 

An'  her  ain  fit  it  burnt  it ; 
While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor  hy  jing, 

'Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 

To  be  that  night. 


X. 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min,' 

She  pits  hersel  an"  Rob  in  ; 
In  loving  blecze  they  sweetly  join, 

Till  white  hi  asc  they're  sobbin : 

*  When  the  corn  is  in  a  doubtful  state,  by  being  too 
green,  or  wet,  the  stack-builder,  by  means  of  old  limber, 
&c,  makes  a  large  apartment  in  his  stack,  with  an 
opening  in  the  side  which  is  fairest  exposed  to  the 
wind  :  this  lie  calls  afausc-housc. 

t  Burning  the  nuts  is  a  famous  charm.  They  name 
the  lad  and  lass  to  each  particular  nut,  as  they  lay  them 
in  the  fire,  and  accordingly  as  they  burn  quietly  to- 
gether, or  start  from  beside  one  another,  the  course  and 
issue  of  the  courtship  will  be. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


31 


Noll's  heart  was  dancin  at  tho  view, 
She  whispcr'd  Rob  to  leuk  for't : 

Rob,  stowlins,  prio'd  her  bomiio  mou, 
Fu'  cozio  in  the  ncnk  for't, 

Unseen  that  nijrht. 


XI. 

But  IMerran  sat  behint  their  backs, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 
She  lea'es  them  gashin  at  their  cracks, 

And  slips  out  by  hersel : 
She  thro'  the  yard  the  nearest  taks, 

An1  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then, 
An'  darklins  grapit  for  the  bauks, 

And  in  the  blue-clue*  throws  then, 

Right  fear't  that  night. 

XII. 

An'  ay  she  win't,  an'  ay  she  swat, 

I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin  ; 
Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L — d !  but  she  was  quakin  ! 
But  whether  'twas  the  Deil  himsel, 

Or  whether  'twas  a  bauken, 
Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  na  wait  on  talkin 

To  spier  that  night. 

xin. 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  Grannie  says, 

"  Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  grannie  ? 
I'll  eat  the  applet  at  the  glass, 

I  gat  frae  uncle  Johnie  :" 
She  tuff't  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt, 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'rin, 
She  notic't  na,  an  azle  brunt 

Her  braw  new  worset  apron 

Out  thro'  that  night. 

XIV. 

"  Ye  little  skelpie-limmer's  face  ! 

How  daur  you  try  sic  sportin, 
As  seek  the  foul  Thief  ony  place, 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  : 


*  Whoever  would,  with  success,  try  this  spell,  must 
strictly  observe  these  directions :  Steal  out,  all  atone,  to 
the  kiln,  and,  darkling,  throw  into  the  pot  a  clue  of 
blue  ynm ;  wind  it  in  a  new  clue  off  the  old  one ;  and, 
towards  the  latter  end,  something  will  hold  the  thread  ; 
demand  who.  hauds  ?  i-  e.  who  holds  1  an  answer  will 
be  returned  from  the  kiln-pot,  by  naming  the  Chris- 
tian and  surname  of  your  future  spouse. 

fTake  a  candle,  and  go  alone  to  a  looking  glass  ;  eat 
an  apple  before  it,  and  some  traditions  say,  you  should 
comb  your  hair,  all  the  time  ;  the  face  of  your  conjugal 
companion,  to  be,  will  be  seen  in  the  glass,  as  if  peeping 
over  your  shoulder. 


Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  tight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it ; 
For  monie  a  ano  has  gotten  a  fright, 

An'  liv'd  an'  di'd  deleeret 

On  sic  a  night. 


XV. 


"  Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor, 

I  mind't  as  weel'  yestreen, 
I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I'm  sure 

I  was  na  past  fyfteen  : 
The  simmer  had  been  cauld  an'  wat, 

An'  stuff'  was  unco  green ; 
An'  ay  a  rantin  kirn  we  gat, 

An'  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 


XVI. 

"  Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M'Graen, 

A  clever,  sturdy  fallow  ; 
He's  sin  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean, 

That  liv'd  in  Achmacalla : 
He  gat  hemp-seed?  I  mind  it  weel, 

An'  he  made  unco  light  o't ; 
But  monie  a  day  was  by  himsel, 

He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 

That  vera  night." 


XVII. 

Then  up  gat  fechtin  Jamie  Fleck, 

An'  he  swoor  by  his  conscience, 
That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck ; 

For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense ; 
The  auld  guidman  raught  down  the  pock, 

An'  out  a  handful'  gied  him ; 
Syne  bad  him  slip  fra  'mang  the  folk 

Sometimes  when  nae  ane  see'd  him : 
An'  try't  that  night. 


xvni. 

He  marches  thro'  amang  the  stacks, 
Tho'  he  was  something  sturtin  ; 

The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  taks, 
An'  haurls  at  his  curpin : 


*  Steal  out  unperceived,  and  sow  a  handful  of  hemp 
seed  ;  harrowing  it  with  any  thing  you  can  conveni- 
ently draw  after  you.  Repeat  now  and  then,  "  Hemp 
seed  I  saw  thee,  hemp  seed  I  saw  thee ;  and  him  (or 
her)  that  is  to  be  my  true-love,  come  after  me  and  pou 
thee."  Look  over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you  will  see 
the  appearance  of  the  person  invoked,  in  the  attitude 
of  pulling  hemp.  Some  traditions  say,  "  come  after  me, 
and  shaw  thee,"  that  is,  show  thyself:  in  which  case  it 
simply  appears.  Others  omit  the  harrowing,  and  say, 
"come  after  me,  and  harrow  thee." 


32 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


An'  ov'ry  now  an"  then,  lie  says, 

"  Hemp-seed  l  i  aw  thee, 
An*  her  thai  is  to  be  my  toss, 

Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee, 

As  last  tliis  night." 

XIX. 

He  whistl'd  np  Lord  Lenox'  march, 
To  keep  his  courage  cheerie ; 

Altlio'  his  hair  began  to  arch, 

He  was  see  fley d  an'  eerie: 
Til]  presently  he  hears  a  squeak, 

An'  ae  an'  gruntle; 

He  by  his  Bhouther  gae  a  keek, 

An'  tumbl'd  wi'  a  wintle 

Out-owrc  that  night. 

XX. 

He  roar'd  a  horrid  murder-shout, 

In  dreadfu'  desperation! 
An'  young  an'  auld  came  rinnin  out, 

To  hear  the  sad  narration : 
He  swoor  'twas  hilchin  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Merran  Humphie, 
Till  stop !  she  trotted  thro'  them  a' ; 

An'  wha  was  it  but  Grumphie 

Asteer  that  night ! 

XXI. 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  gaen 

To  win  three  wechts  o'  naelhing  ;* 
But  for  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in  : 
She  gics  the  herd  a  pickle  nits, 

An'  twa  red  chcekit  apples, 
To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tarn  Kipples 

That  vera  night. 

xxn. 

She  turns  the  key  wi'  cannie  thraw, 
An'  owre  the  threshold  ventures; 

But  first  on  Sawnic  gies  a  ca' 
Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters ; 


*  This  charm  must  likewise  be  performed  unperceived, 
and  alone.  You  go  to  the  barn,  and  open  both  doors, 
taking  them  off  the  hinges,  if  possible ;  for  there  is 
danger  that  the  being,  about  to  appear,  may  shut  the 
doors,  and  do  you  some  mischief.  Then  take  that  ta- 
ut used  in  winnowing  tho  corn,  which,  in  our 
y  dialect,  we  call  a  wccht ;  and  go  through  all  the 
attitudes  of  letting  down  corn  against  the  wind.  Re- 
peat  it  three  times;  and  the  third  time  an  apparition 
will  pass  through  the  bam,  in  at  the  windy  door,  and 
out  at  the  other,  having  both  the  figure  in  question,  and 
tin;  appearance  or  retinue,  marking  the  employment  or 
■taiion  in  life. 


A  ration  rattled  up  the  wa\ 

An'  she  cry'd  L — d  preserve  her 

An'  ran  thro'  niiddcn-hole  an'  a', 
An'  pray "d  wi'  zeal  an'  fervour, 

Fu'  fast  that  night. 

XXBI. 

They  hoy't  out  Will,  wi'  sair  advice  : 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane; 
It  chane'd  the  slack  he  faddoind  thrice,* 

Was  tinimer  propt  for  thrawin  : 
He  taks  a  swirlie,  auld  moss-oak, 

For  some  black,  grousome  carlin ; 
An'  loot  a  winze,  an,  drew  a  stroke, 

Till  skin  in  blypes  came  haurlin 

AfT's  nieves  that  night. 

xxrv\ 

A  wanton  widow  Leezic  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kittlen  ; 
But  Och  '.  that  night,  amang  the  shaws, 

Slie  got  a  fearfu'  settlin  ! 
She  tliro'  the  whins,  an'  by  the  caim, 

An'  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin, 
Whare  three  lairds''  lands  met  at  a  burnf 

To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in, 

Was  bent  that  night 

XXV. 


Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays, 

As  thro'  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays; 

Whyles  in  awicl  it  dimpl't; 
Whyles  glittcr'd  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night. 


XXVI. 


Amang  the  brachens,  on  the  brae, 
Between  her  an'  the  moon, 

The  deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey, 
Gat  up  an'  gae  a  croon : 


*Takc  an  opportunity  of  going,  unnoticed,  to  a  Bear 
stack,  and  fathom  it  three  times  round.    The  last  fa- 
thom of  the  last  time,  you  will  caich  in  your  arms  the 
appearance  of  your  future  conjugal  yoke-fellow. 

t  You  go  out,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  a  social  spell,  to 
a  south  running  spring  or  rivulet,  where  "  three  lairds* 
lands  meet,"  and  dip  your  left  shirt  sleeve.  Go  to  bed 
in  sight  Of  a  lire,  and  hang  your  wet  bleeve  before  it  to 
dry.  Lie  awake  ;and  sometime  near  midnight,  an  ap- 
parition, having  the  exact  figure  of  the  grand  object  in* 

n,  will  come  and  turn  the  sleeve,  as  if  to  dry  the 
other  si' I 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


33 


Poor  Leczio's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool ; 

Neer  lav'rock  height  she  jumpit, 
But  mist  a  fit,  an'  in  the  pool 

Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi'  a  plunge  that  night. 

XXVII. 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  luggies  three*  are  ranged, 
And  ev'ry  time  great  care  is  ta'en, 

To  see  them  duly  changed  : 
Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys 

Sin  Mar's  year  did  desire, 
Because  he  gat  the  toom-dish  thrice, 

He  heav'd  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

xxvm. 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  an'  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  dinna  weary  ; 
An'  unco  tales,  an'  funnie  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery, 
Till  butter  d  so'ro,t  wi'  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin  ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt, 

They  parted  affcareerin 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


THE  AULD  FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR  MORNING  SALUTATION 

TO 

HIS  AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

On  giving  her  the  accustomed  Ripp  of  Corn  to  hansel 
in  the  New- Year. 

A  guid  New-year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie ! 
Hae,  there's  a  ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie : 
Tho'  thou's  howc-backit,  now,  an'  knaggie, 

I've  seen  the  day, 
Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  ony  staggie 

Out-owTe  the  lay. 

*  Take  three  dishes  ;  put  clean  water  in  one,  foul 
water  in  another,  leave  the  third  empty  :  blindfold  a 
person,  and  lead  him  to  the  hearth  where  the  dishes 
are  ranged  ;  he  (or  she)  dips  the  left  hand :  if  by  chance 
in  the  clean  water,  the  future  husband  or  wife  will 
come  to  the  bar  of  matrimony  a  maid  ;  if  in  the  foul,  a 
widow ;  if  in  the  empty  dish,  it  foretells,  with  equal  cer- 
tainly, no  marriage  at  all.  It  is  repeated  three  times, 
and  every  time  the  arrangement  of  the  dishes  is  altered. 

t  Sowens,  will)  butter  instead  of  milk  to  them,  is  al- 
TOtys  the  Halloween  Supper. 

D 


Tho'  now  thou's  dowic,  stiff,  an'  crazy, 
An'  thy  auld  hide's  as  while's  a  daisy, 
I'vo  seen  thee  dappl't,  sleek,  and  glaizic, 

A  bonnic  gray : 
He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize  thee, 

Ance  in  a  day. 


Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 
A  Jilly  buirdly,  steeve,  an'  swank, 
An'  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank, 

As  e'er  tread  yird  ; 
An'  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  stank, 

Like  ony  bird. 


It's  now  some  nine  an'  twenty  year, 
Sin'  thou  was  my  good  father's  meere  ; 
He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  clear, 

An'  fifty  mark ; 
Tho'  it  was  sma',  'twas  weel-won  gear, 

Art'  thou  was  stark. 


When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin  wi'  your  minnie  : 
Tho'  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  an'  funnie, 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie ; 
But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  an'  cannie, 

An'  unco  sonsie. 


That  day,  ye  prane'd  wi'  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonnie  bride  ; 
An'  sweet,  an'  gracefu'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air  ! 
Kyle  Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

For  sic  a  pair. 


Tho'  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  an'  hobble 
An'  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble, 
That  day  ye  was  a  jinker  noble, 

For  heels  an'  win' ! 
An'  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  wauble, 

Far,  far  behin'. 


When  thou  an'  I  were  young  an'  skeigh, 
An'  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh, 
How  thou  wad  prance,  an'  snore,  an'  skreigh, 

An'  tak  the  road  ! 
Town's  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh, 

An'  ca't  thee  mad. 


When  thou  was  corn't,  an'  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a  swallow  : 
At  Brooses  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow, 

For  pith  an'  speed : 
But  ev'ry  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

Where'er  thou  gaed. 


The  sma',  droop-rumpl't,  hunter  cattle, 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle  ; 


34 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle. 
An'  gar'1  them  whaizle: 

Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 

O  sauifh  or  hazel 


Thou  was  a  noble  Jilt  ie-lan\ 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn  ! 
Aft  thee  an'  1,  in  aught  hours  gaun, 

On  guid  March  weather, 
Hae  turn'd  sax  rood  beside  our  han', 

For  days  thegither. 


Tliou  never  braindg't,  an'  fetch't,  air  fliskit. 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 
An'  >jircad  abreed  thy  weel-fill'd  brisket, 

\\  i'  pith,  an1  pow'r, 
Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair't  and  risket, 

An'  slypct  owre» 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  an'  snaws  were  deep, 
An'  threaten'd  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee-bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer ; 
I  kenn'd  m}r  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,  or  simmer. 


hi  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 
The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fae't  it : 
Thou  never  lap,  and  sten't,  and  breastit, 

Then  stood  to  blaw  ; 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit, 

Thou  snoov't  awa. 


My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a' : 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw  : 
Forbye  sax  mae,  I've  sell't  awa. 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  tlirctteen  pund  an'  twa, 
The  vera  warst. 


Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  han  wrought, 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought ! 
An'  monie  an  anxious  day,  1  thought 

We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we're  brought, 

Wi'  something  yet. 

And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan', 
That  now  perhaps  1  lion's  less  descrvin, 
An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin, 

For  my  last/bi<, 
A  hcapit  stimpart,  I'll  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

We've  worn  to  crazy  years  tliegither  ; 
Well  toyte  about  wi'  ane  anithcr  ; 
Wi'  tentie  care,  I'll  flit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain'd  rig, 
Where  yc  may  nobly  r;i\  your  bather, 
Wi'  sma'  fatigue. 


TO  A  MOUSE, 


ON  TURNING  HER  UP  IN  HER  NEST  WITH 
THE  PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER  1785. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle '. 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murdering  pattlc  ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
lias  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  maks  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 
An' fellow  mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maim  live  ! 
A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request : 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  arc  strewin  '. 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  Lrreen ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snoll  and  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  coniin  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  tliro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  monie  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men, 

( rang  n  ft  a-gley, 
An'  lca'eus  nought  but  grief  an  pain, 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  Ihou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  Ocli !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'' fear. 


BURNS' POEMS. 


35 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 


Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pityless  storm  ! 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Yourloop'd  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  1 

SlIAKSPEARE. 


When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  dourc, 

Sharj)  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r ; 

When  Phccbus  gies  a  short-liv'd  glow'r 

Far  south  the  lift, 

Dim-dark 'ning  thro'  the  flaky  show'r, 

Or  whirling  drift : 


Ac  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd, 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock'd, 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreeths  up-chock'd, 

"Wild-eddying  swirl, 
Or  tliro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd, 

Down  headlong  hurl. 


List'ning,  the  doors  an'  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle, 

O'  winter  war, 
And  tliro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle, 

Beneatli  a  scar. 


Ilk  happing  bird,  wree,  helpless  tiling, 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  cluttering  wing, 
An'  close  thy  e'e  ? 

Ev'n  you  on  murd'ring  errands  toil'd, 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exil'd, 
The  blood-stain'd  roost,  and  sheep-cote  spoil'd, 

My  heart  forgets, 
While  pityless  tho  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats. 


Now  Phmbe,  in  her  midnight  reign 
Dark  mufil'd,  view'd  the  dreary  plain , 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 
Wlion  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain, 

Slow,  solemn,  stole— 

"  Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust ! 
And  freoze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost ! 
Descend,  ye  cliilly,  smothering  snows! 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 


More  hard  unkindncss,  unrelenting, 
Vengeful  malice,  unreport!  ing, 
Than  heav'n  illumin'd  man  on  brother  man  be- 
stows ! 
Sec  stern  oppression's  iron  grip, 
Or  mad  ambition's  gory  baud, 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 

Wo,  want,  and  murder  o'er  a  land  ! 
Ev'n  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 
Truth,  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale, 
How  pamper'd  luxury,  flatt'ry  by  her  side, 
Tho  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 
With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear, 
Looks  o'er  proud  property,  extended  wide ; 
And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittring  show, 
A  creature  of  another  kind, 
Some  coarser  substance,  unrcfin'd. 
Tlae'd  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus  vile,  be- 
low; 
Where,  where  is  love's  fond,  tender  throe, 
With  lordly  honour's  lofty  brow, 
The  pow'rs  you  proudly  own? 
Is  there,  beneath  love's  noble  name, 
Can  harbour,  dark,  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ! 
Mark  maiden-innocence  a  prey 

To  love-pretending  snares, 
This  boasted  honour  turns  away 
Shunning  soft  pity's  rising  sway, 
Regardless  of  the  tears,  and  unavailing  pray'rs ! 
Perhaps,  this  hour,  in  mis'ry's  squalid  nest, 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast, 
And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the  rock- 
ing blast ! 


Oh  ye !  who  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
Think,  for  a  moment,  on  his  wretched  fate, 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown ! 

Ill-satisfy'd  keen  nature's  clam'rous  call, 
Stretch'd  on  Ids  straw  he  lays  himself  to 
sleep, 

While  thro'  the  ragged  roof  and  clunky  wall, 
Chill  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap  ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine, 
Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine '. 
Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  ! 
But  shall  thy  lega  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  fortune's  underserved  blow  ? 

Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress, 

A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss ! 


I  heard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 
Shook  oft' the  pouthcry  snaw", 

And  hail'd  the  morning  with  a  cheer, 
A  cottage-rousing  craw. 


But  deep  this  truth  impress 'd  my  minJ- 

Thro'  all  his  works  abroad, 
The  heart,  benevolent  and  kind, 

The  most  resembles  God. 


36 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A   BROTHER   POET.* 


January- 


I. 


While  winds  frae  aff  Ben  Lomond  blaw, 
And  bar  the  doors  wi'  driving  snaw, 

And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 
I  set  me  down  to  pass  the  time, 
And  spin  a  Terse  or  twa  o'  rhyme, 

In  liamely  westlin  jingle. 
While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 
I  grudge  a  wee  the  great  folks'  gift, 
That  live  sae  bien  an'  snug : 
I  tent  less,  and  want  less 
Their  roomy  fire-side ; 
But  hanker  and  canker, 

To  see  their  cursed  pride.    . 


II. 


It's  hardly  in  a  body's  po^v'r, 

To  keep,  at  times,  frae  being  sour, 

To  see  how  things  are  shar'd  ; 
How  best  o'  chicls  are  whiles  in  want, 
While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant, 

And  ken  na  how  to  wair't : 
But,  Davie,  lad,  ne'er  fash  your  head 

Tho'  we  hae  little  gear, 
We're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 
As  lang's  we're  hale  and  fier : 
"  Mair  spier  na',  nor  fear  na,"t 

Auld  age  ne'er  mind  a  fcg, 
The  last  o't,  the  warst  o't, 
Is  only  for  to  beg. 

III. 


To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e'en, 
When  banes  are  craz'd  and  bluid  is  thin, 

Is,  doubtless,  great  distress ! 
Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest ; 
Ev'n  then,  sometimes  we'd  snatch  a  taste 

Of  truest  happiness. 
The  honest  heart  that's  free  frae  a' 

Intended  fraud  or  guile, 
J  low  ever  fortune  kick  the  ba', 
Has  ay  some  cause  to  smile, 
And  mind  still,  you'll  find  still, 

A  comfort  this  nae  sma'; 
Nae  mair  then,  we'll  care  then, 
Nae  farther  can  we  fa'. 


*  David  Sillar,  one  of  the  club  at  Tarbollon,   and 
author  of  a  volume  of  Poems  in  the  Scottish  dialect.   E 
t  Raiu 


IV. 


What  tho',  like  commoners  of  air, 
We  wander  out,  we  know  not  where, 

But  either  huuse  or  hall  ? 
Yet  nature's  charms,  the  hills  and  woods, 
Tho  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods, 

Are  free  alike  to  all. 
In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear, 
With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound, 
To  see  the  coming  year : 

On  braes  when  we  please,  then, 

We'll  sit  an'  sovvth  a  tune ; 
Syne  rhyme  till't,  we'll  time  till't, 
And  sinff  't  when  we  hae  done. 


V. 

It's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank ; 

It's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest ; 
It's  no  in  makin  muckle  mair : 
It's  no  in  books ;  it's  no  in  lear, 

To  make  us  truly  blest : 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest ; 

Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures, 

Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  ay's  the  part  ay, 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 


VI. 

Think  ye,  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wha  drudge  and  drive  tliro'  wet  and  dry 

Wi'  never-ceasing  toil ; 
Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they 
Wha  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way, 

As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 
Alas  !  how  aft  in  haughty  mood, 
God's  creatures  they  oppress ! 
Or  else,  neglecting  a'  that's  guid, 
They  riot  in  excess ! 

Baith  careless,  and  fearless 
Of  either  heav'n  or  hell! 
Esteeming,  and  deeming 
It's  a'  an  idle  tale  ! 


VII. 

Then  let  us  checrfu'  acquiesce  ; 
Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less, 

By  pining  at  our  slate ; 
And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 
I,  hero  wha  sit,  hae  met  wi'  some, 

An's  thankfu'  for  them  yet. 
They  gie  tho  wit  of  age  to  youth  ; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel : 
They  make  us  see  the  naked  truth, 

The  real  guid  and  ill. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


37 


Tho'  losses,  and  crosses, 

Be  lessons  right  severe, 
There's  wit  there,  ye'll  get  there, 

Ye'll  find  nae  other  where. 

VIII. 

But  tent  mo  Davie,  ace  o'  hearts ! 

(To  sUy  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  cartes, 

And  flatt'ry  I  detest) 
This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy ; 

And  joys  the  very  best. 
There's  a'  the  pleasures  o'  tlie  heart, 

The  lover  an'  the  frien' ; 
Ye  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 
And  I  my  darling  Jean  ! 
It  warms  ine,  it  charms  me, 

To  mention  but  her  name : 
It  heats  me,  it  beets  me, 
And  sets  me  a'  on  flame ! 

IX. 

O'  all  ye  pow'rs  who  rule  above  ! 
O  Them,  whose  very  self  art  love  ! 

Thou  know'st  my  words  sincere  ! 
The  life-blood  streaming  thro'  my  heart, 
Or  my  more  dear,  immortal  part, 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  1 
When  heart-corroding  care  and  grief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest, 
Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 
Thou  Being,  All-seeing, 

O  hear  my  fervent  pray'r ; 
Still  take  her,  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  1 


X. 


All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear ! 
The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear, 

The  sympathetic  glow ; 
Long  since,  this  world's  thorny  ways 
Had  number'd  out  my  weary  days, 

Had  it  not  been  for  you  ! 
Fate  still  has  bless'd  me  with  a  friend, 

In  every  care  and  ill ; 
And  oft  a  more  endearing  band, 
A  tie  more  tender  still. 
It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene, 
To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean. 

XI. 

O,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style  ! 
The  words  come  skelpin  rank  and  file, 

Amaist  before  I  ken  1 
The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine, 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 

Were  glowrin  owre  my  pen. 


My  spaviet  Pegasus  will  limp, 

Till  ance  he's  fairly  het ; 
And  then  he'll  hilch,  and  stilt,  and  jimp, 
An'  rin  an  unco  fit : 

But  least  then,  the  beast  then, 

Should  rue  this  hasty  ride, 

I'll  light  now,  and  dight  now 

His  sweaty  wizen'd  hide. 


THE  LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  UNFORTUNATE  ISSUE 
OF  A  FRIEND'S  AMOUR. 


Alas  !  how  oft  does  Goodness  wound  itself, 
And  sweet  Affection  prove  the  spring  of  wo ! 
Home. 


I. 


O  thou  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines, 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep  ! 
Thou  seest  a  wretch  that  inly  pines, 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep  ! 
With  wo  I  nightly  vigils  keep, 

Beneath  thy  wan  unwarming  beam ; 
And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep, 

How  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream. 


II. 


I  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 

The  faintly-marked  distant  hill : 
I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn, 

Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill : 
My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still ! 

Thou  busy  pow'r,  Remembrance  cease ! 
Ah  !  must  the  agonizing  thrill 

For  ever  bar  returning  peace  ! 

m. 

No  idly-feign'd  poetic  pains, 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim , 
No  shepherd's  pipe — Arcadian  strains ; 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame  : 
The  plighted  faith ;  the  mutual  flame  ; 

The  oft  attested  pow'rs  above  : 
The  promis'd  Father's  lender  name  : 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love ! 

IV. 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptur'd  moments  flown 

How  have  I  wish'd  for  fortune's  charms, 
For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone ! 


38 


BURNS'  POEMS 


And  must  I  think  it  !  is  she  gone, 
My  secret  heart's  exulting  boast  ? 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  ? 
And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  i 


<  Hi  !  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart, 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth, 
As  from  the  fondest  lover  p;irt. 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ! 
Alas  !  life's  path  may  be  unsmooth 

Her  Way  lie  thro' rough  distress  ! 
Then  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe, 

J  ler  sorrows  share  and  make  them  less  ? 


VL 


Ye  winged  hours  that  o'er  us  past, 

Enraptur'd  more,  the  more  enjoy'd, 
Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast, 

My  fondly-treasur'd  thoughts  employ 'd. 
That  breast  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room  ! 
Ev'n  ev'ry  ray  of  hope  destroy "d, 

And  not  a  wish  to  gild  the  gloom  ! 

vn. 


The  morn  that  warns  th'  approaching  day, 

Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  wo  : 
I  see  the  hours  in  long  array, 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering,  slow. 
Full  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  throe, 

Keen  recollection's  direful  train, 
Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low, 

Shall  kiss  the  distant,  western  main. 

vm. 


And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try, 

Sore-harass'd  out  with  care  and  grief, 
My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye, 

k>  >  |i  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief: 
Or  it*  I  slumber,  fancy,  i 

Reigns  haggard-wild,  in  sore  affright : 
Ev'n,day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief, 

From  such  a  horror-breatlung  night. 

IX. 

O  !  thou  bright  queen  who  o'er  th'  expanse, 
Now  highest  reign'st,  with  boundless  sway ! 

<  >:'i  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 
Observ'd  us.  fondly-wanuring,  stray  ! 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away, 

While  love's  luxurious  pulse  beat  high, 

Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray. 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 


X. 


Oh  !  scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set ! 

Scenes,  never,  never,  to  return  ! 
Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I  forget, 

Again  I  feel,  again  1  bum  ! 
From  ev'ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life's  weary  vale  I'll  wander  thro' 
And  bopeless,  comfortless,  I'll  mourn 

A  faithless  woman's  broken  vow. 


DESPONDENCY, 


AN  ODE. 


Oppress'd  with  grief,  oppress'd  with  care, 
A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear 

I  sit  me  down  and  sigh  : 
O  life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 
Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 
Dim  backward  as  I  cast  my  view, 
What  sick'ning  scenes  appear  ! 
Whal  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  thro', 
Too  justly  I  may  fear ! 
Still  caring,  despairing, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom  ; 

My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er, 

But  with  the  closing  tomb ! 


II. 


Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life, 
Who  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 

No  other  view  regard  ! 
Ev'n  when  the  wished  end  's  deny'd, 
Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  ply'd, 

They  bring  their  own  reward  : 
Whilst  I,  a  hope-abandon'd  wight, 

Unfitted  with  an  aim, 
Meet  ev'ry  sad  returning  night, 
And  joyless  morn  the  same  ; 
You,  bustling,  and  just  lino-. 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain  : 
I,  listless,  yet  restless, 
Find  every  prospect  vain. 

III. 

How  blest  the  Solitary's  lot, 
Who,  all-forgetting  all-forgot, 

Within  his  humble  cell, 
The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  roots, 
Sits  o'er  his  newly-gatherd  fruits, 

Beside  his  crystal  well  ! 
Or,  haply,  to  his  ev'ning  thought, 
By  unfrequented  stream, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


39 


The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 
A  faint  collected  dream : 
While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  hcav'n  on  high, 
As  wand'ring,  meand'ring, 
He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

IV. 


Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  plac'd 
Where  never  human  footstep  trae'd, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part ; 
The  lucky  moment  to  improve, 
And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move, 

With  self-respecting  art : 
But  all !  those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joys 

Which  1  too  keenly  taste, 
The  Solitary  can  despise, 
Can  want,  and  yet  be,  blest ! 
He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate, 
Wliilst  I  here  must  cry  here, 
At  perfidy  ingrate ! 


V. 


Oh  !  enviable,  early  days, 

When  dancincr  thoughtless  pleasure's  maze, 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown ! 
How  ill  exchang'd  for  riper  times, 
To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes, 

Of  others,  or  my  own ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush, 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 
When  manhood  is  your  wish ! 
The  losses,  the  crosses, 

That  active  man  engage .' 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  all, 
Of  dim-declining  age 


WINTER. 

A  DIRGE. 

I. 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw ; 
Or,  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 

The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw : 
While    tumbling    brown,    the    burn    c 
down, 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae ; 
And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 


11. 


"  The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'ercast,"* 

The  joyless  winter-day, 
Let  others  fear,  to  mo  more  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May: 
The  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join, 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine 

III. 

Thou  PoieV  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Here,  firm,  I  rest,  they  must  be  best, 

Because  they  are  Thy  Will ! 
Then  all  I  want  (O,  do  thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine  !) 
Since  to  enjoy  thou  dost  deny 

Assist  me  to  resign. 


COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

INSCRIBED  TO  R.  A****,  ESQ- 


Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

Gray. 


My   lov'd,  my  honour'd,  much  respected 
friend  I 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 
My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and 
praise : 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene ; 

The    native   feelings  strong,  the  guileless 

wavs: 

What  A'****  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 

All '.  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there, 

Lween. 


II. 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  plough , 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  re- 
pose: 

Dr.  Young. 


40 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,   and  his 
hoes, 
Hoping  the  mnm  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,   o'er  the  moor,  liis   course   does 
hameward  bend. 


m. 


At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneatli  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher 
thro' 
To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  an' 
glee. 
His  wee  bit  jngle,  blinkin  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wi/ie's 
smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a1  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 
Vn'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  hi:s 
toil. 


IV. 


Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'  the  plough,  some  herd,  some  tentie 
rin 
A  cannie  errend  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their    eldest  hope,    their    Jenny,    woman 
grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  hov 
e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  new 
gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


Wi'  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers : 

The   social    hours,    swift-wing'd    unnotic'd 

fleet ; 

Eacli  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears; 

The  parents,  partial, eye  their  hopeful  years; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mullu  r.  wi'  her  needle  ari!  her  sheers, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the 
new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 


VI. 

Their  master's  an1  their  mistress's  command, 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 

"  \n"  mind  their  labours  wi' and  eydenthand, 
An'ne'er,tho'outo'sight,to  jauk  or  play  : 


An'  O  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway! 

An'  mind  your  duly,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 
Lord  aright !" 


VII 


But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 
With  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his 
name, 
While  Jenny  hafllins  is  affraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears,  it's  nae  wild, 
worthless  rake. 


VIII. 


Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 
A  strappan  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother's 
eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en ; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 
kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi' 
joy- 
But  blate  and  laithfu1,  scarce  can  weel 
behave  ; 
The  mother,  wi"  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an  sae 
grave ; 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected 
like  the  lave. 


IX. 

O  happy  love !  where  love  like  this  is  found ! 

O  heart-felt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
"  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 

spare. 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 
In  others  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the 
ev'ning  gale." 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart — 
A  wretch !    a  villain !   lost  to  love  and 
truth ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 
Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 


BURNS 

Curse  on   his   pcrjur'd    arts  !    dissembling 
smooth  ! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their 
child  ? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  dis- 
traction wild? 

XI. 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple 
board, 
The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's 
food : 
The  soupe  their  only  Hawkie  does  afford, 
That  'yont  tne  hallan  snugly  chows  her 
cood  : 
The  dame  brings    forth    in    complimental 
mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  wcel-hain'd  kebbuck, 
fell, 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the 
Deil. 

xn. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha -Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  : 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God  1"   he  says,  with 
solemn  air. 

xm. 

They  chant  their   artless   notes   in  simple 
guise ; 
They  tunc  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 
aim  : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures 
rise, 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name : 
Or  noble  Elgin  oeets  the  heav'nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 
The  tickl'd  ears  no   heart-felt    raptures 
raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

XIV. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
high; 
Or,  Moses  bado  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Jlmalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
D2 


POEMS. 


41 


Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging 
ire  ; 
O^  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
shed  ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second 
name; 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head : 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped  ; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land  : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand  ; 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronoune'd 
by  Heav'n's  command. 

XVI. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal 
King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the   husband 
prays : 
Hope    "  springs    exulting    on    triumphant 
wing,"* 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future 
days : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

xvn. 

Compar'd  with  this,   how  poor  Religion's 
pride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Poiv'r,  incens'd,the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  plcas'd,  the  language  of 
the  soul ; 
And  in  liis  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

xvm. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their   sev'ral 
way; 
The  yougling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 
And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  re- 
quest 

*  Pope's  Windsor  Forest. 


42 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


That  lie   who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous 
nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  fiow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  th«  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur 
springs, 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,   rever'd 
abroad  : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"  An  honest  man's    the  noblest  work  of 
God :" 
And  cartes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  col/age  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  !  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd  ! 

XX. 

O  Scolia  .'  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil, 
Be   bless'd  with  health,  and  peace,  and 
sweet  content ! 
And,  O !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  pre- 
vent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  croivns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
lov'd  Isle. 

XXI. 

O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart ; 
Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art, 
His  friend,   inspirer,  guardian,   and   re- 
ward !) 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert : 
Bui  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 
guard! 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

A  DIRGE. 


Whfn  chill  November's  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 


One  cv'ning,  as  I  wander'd  forth 

Along  the  banks  ofJlyr, 
I  spy'd  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care ; 
His  face  was  furrow'd  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 


II. 


"  Young  stranger,  whither  wand'rest  thou  ?' 

Began  the  reverend  sage  ; 
"  Docs  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ; 
Or  haply,  press'd  with  cares  and  woes, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man ! 


m. 

"  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  ; 
I've  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  ; 
And  ev'ry  time  has  added  proofs, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

IV. 

"  O  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Mispcnding  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youtliful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  ; 

Licentious  passions  burn  ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right : 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 
Then  age  and  want,  Oh  !  ill  match'd  pair, 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


VI. 

"  A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  rarest  ; 
Yet,  think, not  all  the  rich  and  groat 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  Oh  !  what  crowds  in  ev'ry  land. 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ; 
Thro'  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


BURINS'  POEMS. 


43 


VII. 

'  Many  and  sharp  the  num'rous  ills 

Inwovon  with  our  frame  I 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whoso  heaven-erected  faco 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn ! 


vni. 


"  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn, 
Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 


IX. 


•  If  I'm  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave,- 

By  nature's  law  design'd, 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  ami  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  pow'r 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 


X. 


"  Yet,  let  not  this,  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youtbful  breast : 
Tliis  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last  ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn  1 


XI 


H  O  death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend, 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ; 
But,  Oh  !  a  bless 'd  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn !" 


PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT 
OF 

DEATH. 


O  thou  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  ! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 

Perhaps  1  must  appear  ! 

II. 

If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun  ; 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Remonstrates  I  have  done  ; 

HI. 

Thou  know'st  that  thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 

And  list'ning  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

IV. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short, 

Or  frailly  stept  aside, 
Do  thou  Jill-Good  .'  for  such  thou  art, 

In  shades  of  darkness  liide. 


V. 


Where  with  intention  I  have  err'd, 

No  other  plea  I  have, 
But,  Thou  art  good ;  and  goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 


STANZAS 


ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Why  am  I  loath  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  i 
Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  be- 
tween : 
Some  gleams  of  sunshine  'mid  renewing 
storms : 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms  ; 
I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  liis  sin-avenging  rod. 


44 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Fam  would  I  say,"Forgive  my  foul  offence!" 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey ; 
But,  should  my  Author  health  again  dis- 
pense, 
Again  1  might  desert  fair  virtue's  way ; 
Again  in  lolly's  path  might  go  astray: 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man; 
Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 
Who    act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's 
plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn'd,  yet  to  tempta- 
tion ran  ? 

O  thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below ! 
If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee,  ■ 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to 
blow, 
Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea: 
With  what  controlling  pow'r  assist  ev'n  me, 
Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  con- 
fine ; 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  pow'rs  to  be, 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  th'  allowed  line ; 
0,  aid  me  with  thy  help,  Omnipotence  Divine  I 


LYING  AT  A  REVEKEXD  FRIEND'S  HOUSE 
ONE  NIGHT,  THE  AUTHOR  LEFT 

THE  FOLLOWING  VERSES 

IN  THE  ROOM  WHERE  HE  SLEPT. 


O  thou  dread  Pow'r,  who  reign'st  above  I 

I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear  : 
When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love, 

I  make  my  pray'r  sincere. 


II. 


The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke, 
Long,  long,  be  pleas'd  to  spare  .' 

To  bless  his  lktle  filial  flock, 
And  show  what  good  men  are. 

m. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 

With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 
O,  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys, 

But  spare  a  mother's  tears  ! 

VI. 

Their  hopo,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth, 
In  manhood's  dawning  blush  ; 

Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 
Up  to  a  parent's  wish  ! 


The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band 

With  earnest  tears  I  pray, 
Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  ev'ry  hand, 
Guide  thou  their  steps  ahvay  1 

VI. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast, 
O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driv*n, 

May  they  rejoice,  no  wand'rer  lost, 
A  family  hi  Heav'n  ! 


THE  FIRST  PSALM. 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  plac'd, 

Hath  happiness  in  store, 
Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked's  way, 

Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore  ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  thetroos 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  lhgh, 
And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

For  why  ?  that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  giv'n  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


A  PRAYER, 

UNDER  THE  PRESSURE  OF  VIOLENT  ANGUISH. 

O  thou  Great  Being  !  what  thou  art 

Surpasses  me  to  know  : 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  thee 

Are  all  thy  works  below. 

Thy  creature  here  before  thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  district  ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  thy  high  behest. 

Sure  thou.  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 
( i.  in  e  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  ! 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wild  design  ; 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves 

To  bear  and  not  repine  ! 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


45 


FIRST  SIX  VERSES  OP  THE  NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

O  thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 

Of  all  the  human  race ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

Their  stay  and  dwelling  place I 

Before  the  mountains  heav'd  their  heads 

Beneath  thy  forming  hand, 
Before  tliis  pond'rous  globe  itself, 

Arose  at  thy  command : 

That  pow'r  which  rais'd  and  still  upholds 

This  universal  frame, 
From  countless,  unbeginning  time 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years 

Which  seem  to  us  so  vast, 
Appear  no  more  before  thy  sight 

Than  yesterday  that's  past. 

Thou  giv'st  the  word :  Thy  creature,  man, 

Is  to  existence  brought: 
Again  thou  say'st,  "  Ye  sons  of  men, 

Return  ye  into  nought  1" 

Thou  layest  them,  witli  all  their  cares, 

In  everlasting  sleep  ; 
As  with  a  flood  thou  tak'st  them  off 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flow'r, 

In  beauty's  pride  array'd  ; 
But  long  ere  night  cut  down  it  lies 

All  wither'd  and  decay'd. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH 
IN  APRIL  178  G. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Tliou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas '.  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  spreckled  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 


Cauld  blew  tho  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rcar'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa"s  maun  shield, 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stano, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-Jield, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawy  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies ! 


Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  Jlow'ret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 
On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

OP  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

Such  fate  of  suffering  worth  isgiv'n, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n, 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
Tillwrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heavn, 
He,  ruin'd,  sink ! 

E'vn  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate 
Tliatfate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 
Stern  Ruin's  plough-share  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 


TO  RUIN. 
I. 

All  hail !  inexorable  lord ! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word, 

The  mightiest  empires  fall ! 
Thy  cruel  wo-delighted  train, 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all  1 


4G 

With  sfern-resolv'd,  despairing  eye, 

I  sec  each  aimed  dart ; 
For  one  lias  cut  my  dearest  tie, 
And  quivers  in  my  lieart. 
Then  low  "ring,  and  pouring, 
Tlie  storm  no  more  I  dread ; 
TIid*  thick'ning  and  black'ning, 
Round  my  devoted  head. 


II. 


And,  thou  grim  pow'r,  by  life  abhorr'd, 
While  life  a  pleasure  can  afford, 

Oh  !  hear  a  wretch's  prayY! 
No  more  I  shrink  appall'd,"afraid; 
I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid, 
To  close  this  scene  of  care  ! 
When  shall  my  soul  in  silent  peace, 

Resign  life's  joyless  day  ; 
My  weary  lieart  its  throbbing  cease, 
Cold  mould'ring  in  the  clay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 
To  stain  my  lifeless  face ; 
Enclasped,  and  grasped 
Within  thy  cold  embrace I 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


TO  MISS  L— , 

WITH  BEATTIE'S  POEMS  AS  A  NEW  YEAR'S 
GIFT,  JANUARY  1,  1787. 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driv'n, 

And  you,  tho'  scarce  in  maiden  prime, 
Are  so  much  nearer  Heav'n. 

No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 

The  infant  year  to  hail ; 
1  send  you  more  than  India  boasts, 

In  Edwin's  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 

Is  charg'd,  perhaps,  too  true  ; 
But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 

An  Edwin  still  to  you ! 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

MAY-I78C. 
I. 

I  LANa  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 
A  something  to  have  sent  you, 

Tho'  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 
Than  just  a  kind  menu  nto; 


But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang 
Let  time  and  chance  determine; 

Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang 
Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 


II. 


Ye'll  try  Hie  world  soon,  my  lad, 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 

And  mucklc  they  may  grieve  ye. 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

Ev'n  when  your  end's  attained ; 
And  a"  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 

Where  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained. 


m. 

Til  no  say,  men  arc  villains  a'; 

The  real,  harden'd  wicked, 
Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law, 

Are  to  a  few  restricked : 
But  och  !  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

An'  little  to  be  trusted  ; 
If  self  tho  wavering  balance  shake, 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted  1 


IV. 


Yet  they  wha  fa1  in  fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  nae  censure, 
For  still  th'  important  e?id  of  life, 

They  equally  may  answer; 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  lieart, 

Tho'  poortith  hourly  stare  him ; 
A  man  may  tak  a  neebor's  part, 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  liim. 


Ay  free,  aff  han'  your  story  tell, 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony ; 
But.  still  keep  sometliingto  yoursel 

Ye'scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yoursel  as  weel's  ye  can 

Frao  critical  dissection  ; 
But  keek  thro'  ev'ry  other  man, 

Wi'  sharpen 'd,  slee  inspection. 

VI. 


The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-plac'd  love, 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it! 
I  wave  the  quantum  o'  tho  sin, 

The  hazard  of  concealing  ; 
But  och!  it  hardens  a' within, 

And  petrifies  tho  feeling ! 


BURNS'  1>0EMS. 


47 


VII. 


To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her  ; 
And  gather  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  jus1  ified  by  honour ; 
Not.  for  to  liide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Not  for  a  train-attendant ; 
But.  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

vrn. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip, 

To  baud  the  wretch  in  order; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip, 

Let  that  ay  be  your  border  ; 
Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause — 

Debar  a'. side  pretences  ; 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws 

Uncaring  consequences. 

IX. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere, 

Must  sine  become  tho  creature  ; 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  ev'n  the  rigid  feature  : 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 

Be  complaisance  extended ; 
An  Atheist's  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  offended ! 


X. 


When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded  ; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sling, 

It  may  be  little  minded  ; 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest-driv'n, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heav'n, 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor ! 

XI. 

Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth  ! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting  : 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth, 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  "  God  send  you  speed," 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser  : 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede, 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser ! 


ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD 

GONE  TO  THE  WEST  INDIES. 

A'  ye  wha  live  by  soups  o'  drink, 
A'  yc  wha  live  by  crambo-clink. 


A'  yc  wha  live  and  never  think, 

Conic  mourn  wi'  me  ! 
Our  billie  's  gicn  us  a'  a  jink, 

An'  owro  the  sea. 


Lament  him  a'  ye  rantin  core, 
Wha  dearly  like  a  random-splore, 
Nae  mair  he'll  join  the  mt  try-roar, 

In  social  key  ; 
For  now  he's  ta'cn  anither  shore, 

An'  owrc  the  sea. 


The  bonnic  lasses  wcel  may  wiss  him, 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him  : 
The  widows,  wives,  an'  a'  may  bless  him, 

Wi'  tearfu'  e'e  • 
For  weel  I  wat  they'll  sairly  miss  hin 

That's  owre  the  sea. 


O  Fortune,  they  hae  room  to  grumble ! 
Hadst  thou  ta'cn  aff  some  drowsy  bummlc, 
Wha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  an'  fumble, 

'Twad  been  nae  plea ; 
But  he  was  gleg  as  ony  wumble, 

That's  owre  the  sea. 


Auld,  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear, 
An'  stain  them  wi'  the  saut,  saut  tear ; 
'Twill  mak  her  poor  auld  heart  I  fear, 

In  flinders  flee ; 
Ho  was  her  laureate  monie  a  year, 

That's  owre  the  sea. 


He  saw  misfortune's  cauld  nor-west 
Lang  mustering  up  a  bitter  blast ; 
A  jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be  ! 
So,  took  a  birth  afore  the  mast, 

An'  owre  the  sea. 


To  tremble  under  Fortune's  cummock, 
On  scarce  a  bellyfu'  o'  drummock, 
Wi'  his  proud,  independent  stomach, 

Could  ill  agree  ; 
So,  row't  his  hurdies  in  a  hammock, 

An'  owre  the  sea 


He  ne'er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding, 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wad  na  bide  in  ; 
Wi'  him  it  ncer  was  under  Hiding  ; 

He  dealt  it  free  : 
The  muse  was  a'  that  he  took  pride  in, 
That's  owre  the  sea. 


Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel, 
An'  hap  him  in  a  cozie  bicl : 
Yell  iind  him  ay  a  dainty  chiel, 

And  fou'  o'  glee  ; 
He  wad  na  wrang'd  the  vera  deil, 

That's  owre  the  sea. 


48 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie ! 
Your  nativo  soil  was  right  lll-willie  ; 
But  may  ye  flourish  like  a  lily, 

Now  honnilie ! 
I'll  toast  ye  in  my  hindmost  gillie, 

Tho'  owre  the  sea. 


TO  A  HAGGIS. 


Fair  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  face, 
Great  cliieftain  o'  the  puddin-racc  ! 
Aboon  them  a'  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm  : 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a  grace 

As  lang's  my  arm. 

The  groaning  trencher  there  ye  fill, 
Your  hurdies  like  a  distant  hill, 
Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a  mill 

In  time  o'  need, 
While  thro'  your  pores  the  dews  distil 

Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic  labour  dight, 
An'  cut  you  up  with  ready  slight, 
Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 

Like  onie  ditch  ; 
And  then,  O  what  a  glorious  sight, 

Warm-reekin,  rich ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  an'  strive, 
Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive, 
Till  a'  their  weel-swall'd  kytes  belyve 

Are  bent  like  drums  ; 
Then  auld  guidman,  maist  like  to  ryve, 

Bttliankit  hums. 


Is  there  that  o'er  his  French  ragout, 
Or  olio  that  wad  staw  a  sow, 
Or  fricassee  wad  mak  her  spew 

Wi'  perfect  sconner, 
Looks  down  wi'  sneering,  scornfu'  view 

On  sic  a  dinner  ? 


Poor  devil '.  see  him  owre  his  trash, 
As  feckless  as  a  withcr'd  rash, 
His  spindle  shank  a  guid  whip  lash, 

His  nieve  a  nit ; 
Thro'  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

O  how  unfit ! 


But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed, 
The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread, 
Clap  in  liis  walio  nieve  a  blade, 

He'll  mak  it  whissle  ; 
An'  legs,  an'  arms,  an'  heads  will  sned, 

Like  taps  o'  thrisslc. 


Ye  pow'rs,  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o'  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 

That  jaups  in  luggies ; 
But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu'  pray'r, 

Gie  her  a  Haggis ! 


A  DEDICATION 


TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ. 

Expect  na,  Sir,  in  this  narration, 
A  fleechin,  fleth'rin  dedication, 
To  roose  you  up,  an'  ca'  you  guid, 
An'  sprung  o'  great  an'  noble  blind, 
Because  ye're  surnam'd  like  his  grace, 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race  ; 
Then  when  I'm  tir'd — and  sae  are  ye, 
Wi'  mony  a  fulsome,  sinfu'  lie, 
Set  up  a  face,  how  I  stop  short, 
For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do — maun  do,  Sir,  wi'  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a  wamefou; 
For  me  !  sae  laigh  I  needna  dow, 
For,  Lord  be  thankit,  /  can  plough  ; 
And  when  I  downa  yoke  a  naig, 
Then,  Lord,  be  thankit,  I  can  beg; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  an'  that's  nae  flatt'rin, 
It's  just  sic  poet,  an'  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him, 
Or  else,  I  fear  some  ill  ane  skelp  him, 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he's  done  yet, 
But  only  he's  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  Patron,  (Sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me, 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  me) 
On  ev'ry  hand  it  will  allow'd  be, 
He's  just — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readily  and  freely  grant, 
He  downa  see  a  poor  man  want ; 
What's  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it, 
What  anco  he  says  he  winri'a  break  it ; 
Ought  ho  can  lend  he'll  no  refus't, 
Till  aft  his  guidncss  is  abus'd  : 
And  rascals  whylcs  that  do  him  wrang, 
Ev'n  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  lang  : 
As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father, 
He  does  na  fail  liis  part  in  either. 

But  then,  na  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that ; 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca'  that ; 
It's  naething  but  a  milder  feature, 
Of  our  poor,  sinfu,'  corrupt  nature  ! 
Ye'U  get  tho  best  o'  moral  works, 
'Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


49 


Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 
That  he's  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 
It's  no  thro'  terror  of  d-mn-tion ; 
It's  just  a  carnal  inclination. 


Morality,  thou  deadly  banc, 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain ! 
Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice ! 


No — stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack ; 
Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back  ; 
Steal  thro'  a  winnork  frae  a  wh-re, 
But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door: 
Be  to  the  poor  liko  onic  whunstane, 
And  haud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane, 
Ply  every  art  o'  legal  thieving  ; 
No  matter,  stick  to  sound  believing. 


Learn   three-mile    pray'rs,    and    half-mile 
graces, 
Wi'  weel-spread  looves,  an'  lang  wry  faces ; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengthen'd  groan, 
Anil  damn  a'  parties  but  your  own; 
I'll  warrant  then,  ye're  nae  deceiver, 
A  steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 


O  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  of  C-lv-n, 
For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin ! 
Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 
Ye'll  some  day  squeel  in  quaking  terror ! 
When  vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath ; 
When  Ruin,  with  Ids  sweeping  besom, 
Just  frets  till  Heav'n  commission  gies  him : 
While  o'er  the  liarp  pale  mis'ry  moans, 
And  strikes  the  ever  deep'ning  tones, 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans ! 

Your  pardon,  Sir,  for  this  digression, 
I  maist  forgat  my  dedication  ; 
But  when  divinity  comes  cross  me, 
My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 

So,  Sir,  ye  see  'twas  nae  daft  vapour, 
But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper, 
When  a'  my  work  I  did  review, 
To  dedicate  them,  Sir,  to  You  : 
Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 
I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel. 

Then  patronise  them  wi'  your  favour, 
And  your  petitioner  shall  ever — 
I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray, 
But  that's  a  woid  I  need  na  say  : 
For  prayin  I  liae  little  skill  o't ; 
I'm  baith  dead-sweer,  an'  wretched  ill  o  t; 
But  I'sc  repeat  each  poor  man'spro^r, 
That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  Sir— 


"  May  ne'er  misfortune's  gowling  hark, 
Howl  lliro'  the  dwelling  o'  the  Clerk! 
May  ne'er  his  gen'rous,  honest  heart, 
For  that  same  gen'rous  spirit  smart! 
May  K******'s  far  honour'd  name 
Lang  beet  his  hymeneal  llame, 
Till  H*******'e,  at  least  a  dizen, 
Are  frae  their  nuptial  labours  risen  : 
Five  bonnie  lasses  round  their  table, 
And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  an'  ablo 
To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel, 
By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 
May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays, 
Shine  on  the  evening  o'  his  days ; 
Till  his  wee  curlie  John's  ier-oe, 
When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow, 
The  last,  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow !" 


I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion, 
Wi'  complimentary  effusion : 
But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are  blest  with  Fortune's  smiles  and  favours, 
I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 
Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 


But  if  (which  Pow'rs  above  prevent !) 
That  iron-hearted  carl,  Want, 
Attended  in  his  grim  advances, 
By  sad  mistakes,  and  black  mischances, 
While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly  him, 
Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am, 
Your  humble  servant  then  no  more ; 
For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor ! 
But  by  a  poor  man's  hopes  in  Heav'n ! 
While  recollection's  pow'r  is  given, 
If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life, 
The  victim  sad  of  fortune's  strife, 
I,  thro'  the  tender  gushing  tear, 
Should  recognize  my  master  dear, 
If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 
Then,  Sir,  your  hand — my  friend  and  brother ! 


TO  A  LOUSE. 

ON  SEEING  ONE  ON  A  LADY'S  BONNET 
AT  CHURCH. 


Ha  !  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie ! 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  : 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely, 

Owro  gauze  and  lace ; 
Tho'  faith,  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 


Ye  ugly,  creepin,  blastit  wonner, 
Dctosted,  shunn'd  by  saunt  an'  sinner, 


50 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


How  daro  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sac  fine  a  lady ! 

Gae  somewhere  else  and  seek  your  dinner 
On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  harlot  squattle ; 
Where  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi'  ithur  kindred,  jumpin  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations  ; 
Whare  horn  or  bane  ne'er  dare  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  yn  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rils,  snug  an'  tight ; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye*ll  no  be  right 

Till  ye've  got  on  it, 
The  vera  tapmost,  tow'ring  height 

O'  Miss's  bonnet. 


My  sooth  !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  noso  out, 
As  plump  and  gray  as  onie  grozet ; 
O  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum, 
I'd  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  doze  o't, 

Wad  dress  your  droddum ! 


I  wad  na  been  surpris'd  to  spy 
Tou  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy ; 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On's  wyliecoat ; 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi .'  fie, 

How  dare  ye  d'ot  1 


O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread  1 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makin  1 
Thao  tciriks  zndjinger-ends,  I  dread, 
Are  notice  takin ! 


O  wad  some  pow'r  the  giftic  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ! 
It  wad  frae  rnonie  a  blunder  free  us 

And  foolish  notion : 
What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'o  us, 
And  ev'n  Devotion  1 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 


I. 


EdiNa!  Scotia's  darling  sent! 

All  hail  tl  and  tow'rs, 

Where  once  ;  nonsuch's  feet 

Sat  legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs  '. 


From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flow'rs, 
As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd, 

And  singing,  lone,  the  ling'ring  hours, 
I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 


II. 


Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide, 

As  busy  trade  his  labours  plies ; 
There  architecture's  noble  pride 

Bids  elegance  and  splendor  rise  ; 
Here  justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

1  li<rh  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod; 
There  learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  science  in  her  coy  abode. 

IE, 


Thy  Sons,  Edina,  social,  kind, 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 
Their  views  enlarg'd,  their  lib'ral  mind, 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale ; 
Attentive  still  to  sorrow's  wail, 

Or  modest  merit's  silent  claim ; 
And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name  ! 

IV. 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn ! 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky, 
Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptur'd  thrill  of  joy  I 
Fair  B strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 

Heav'n's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine  ; 
I  see  the  sire  of  love  on  ft  igh , 

And  own  liis  work  indeed  divine ! 


There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 

Thy  rough,  rude  fortress  gleams  afar ; 
Like  some  bold  vet'ran,  gray  in  arms, 

And  mark'd  with  many  a  seamy  scar: 
The  pond'rous  walls  and  massy  bar, 

Grim-rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock ; 
Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war, 

And  oft  repell'd  the  invader's  shock. 


VI. 


■  With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tears, 

I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 
Where  Scotia1!  kings  of  other  years, 

Fam'd  heroes  '.    had  their  royal  home : 
Alas  !  bow  chang'd  the  times  to  come! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dual ! 
Their  !utpl"ss  race  wild-wand'ring  roam! 

Tho1  rigid  law  cries  out,  'twas  just ! 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


vn. 


Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 

Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore, 
Thro''  hostilo  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps 

Old  Scotia's  bloody  lion  boro  : 
Ev'n  /  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  my  sires  have  left  their  shed, 
And  fae'd  grim  danger's  loudest  roar, 

Bold-following  where  your  fathers  led  ! 

vm. 

Edina !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flow'rs, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray 'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  ling'ring  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK, 


AN  OLD  SCOTTISH  BARD. 
APRIL  1st,  1785. 

While  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green, 
An'  paitricks  scraicliin  loud  at  e'en, 
An'  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen, 

Inspire  my  muse, 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien', 

I  pray  excuse. 

On  fasten-een  we  had  a  rockin, 
To  ca'  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin  ; 
And  there  was  muckle  fun  an' jokin, 

Ye  need  na  doubt ; 
At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best, 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife  : 
It  thirl'd  the  heart-strings  thro'  the  breast, 

A'  to  the  life. 

I've  scarce  heard  ought  describes  sae  weel, 
What  gen'rous,  manly  bosoms  feel ; 
Thought  I,  "  Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie's  wark!" 
They  tald  me  'twas  an  odd  kind  chiel 

About  Muirkirk. 


It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear't, 
And  sae  about  him  there  I  spier 't 


Then  a'  that  ken't  him'round  declar'd 
lie  had  ingine, 

That  nane  excell'd  it,  few  cam  near't, 
It  was  sae  fine. 


That  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale, 
An'  either  douce  or  merry  tale, 
Or  rhymes  an'  sangs  he'd  made  himscl, 
Or  witty  catches, 
'Tween  Inverness  and  Tiviotdale, 

He  had  few  matches. 


Then  up  I  gat,  an'  swoor  an'  aith, 
Tho'  I  should  pawn  my  plough  and  graith, 
Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's  death, 

At  some  dyke-back, 
A  pint  an'  gill  I'd  gie  them  baitli 

To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  an'  foremost,  I  should  tell, 
Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
I  to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

Tho'  rude  an'  rough, 
Yet  crooning  to  a  body's  sel, 

Does  well  eneugh. 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense, 
But  just  a  rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 
An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

Yet,  what  the  matter  ? 
Whene'er  my  muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say,  "  How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang  ? 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye 're  maybe  wrang. 


What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools ; 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs  your  grammars : 
Ye'd  better  ta'en  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  knappm  hammers. 


A  set  o'  dull  conceited  hashes, 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes  ! 
They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak 
An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek ! 


Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 
Then  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart 


52  BURNS'  POEMS. 

O  for  a  spunk  o'  Allan's  glee, 
Or  Fergusson's,  tho  bauld  and  slee, 
Or  bright  Lajnt(ik's  my  friend  to  be, 

If  I  can  hit  it! 
That  would  be  lcar  eneugh  for  me, 

If  1  could  get  it. 


Now,  Sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 
Tho'  real  friends,  I  b'lieve,  are  few, 
Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou, 

I'se  no  insist, 
But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that's  true, 

I'm  on  your  list. 


I  winna  blaw  about  myscl  ; 
A.s  ill  I  like  my  fauts  to  tell ; 
But  friends,  and  folk  that  wish  me  well, 

They  sometimes  roose  me, 
Tho'  I  maun  own,  as  monie  still 

As  far  abuse  me. 


There's  ae  weefaul  they  whylcs  lay  to  me, 
I  like  the  lasses — Gude  forgie  me  ! 
For  monie  a  plack  they  wheedle  frae  me, 

At  dance  or  fair  ; 
May  be  some  ithcr  thing  they  gie  me 

They  weel  can  spare. 


But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there  ; 
We'sc  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  care, 

If  we  forgather, 
An'  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin-ware 

Wi'  ane  anither.    . 


The  four-gill  chap,  we'sc  gar  him  clatter, 
An'  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin  water ; 
Syne  we'll  sit  down  an'  tak  our  whitter, 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 
An'  faith  we'se  be  acquainted  better 
Before  wc  part. 


Awa,  ye  selfish  warly  race, 
Wha  think  that  bavins,  sense,  an'  grace, 
Ev'n  love  an'  friendship,  should  give  place 

To  catch-lhe-plack ! 
I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face, 

Nor  hear  you  crack. 


But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms, 
Whose  heart  the  tide  of  kindness  warms, 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 

Bach  aid  the  others', 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms, 

My  friends,  my  brothers  ! 


But  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 
As  my  auld  pen's  worn  to  the  grissle 
Twa  lines  frae  }rou  wad  gar  me  fissle, 

Who  am,  most  fervent, 
While  I  can  either  sing  or  whissle, 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


TO  THE  SAME. 


april  21st,  1785 


While  new-ca'd  kye  roufat  the  stake, 
An'  pownies  reek  in  pleugh  or  braik, 
This  hour  on  e'enin's  edge  I  take, 

To  own  I'm  debtor 
To  honest-hcartod,  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 


Forjesket  sair,  with  weary  legs, 
Rattlin'  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs, 
Or  dealing  thro'  amang  the  naigs 

Their  ten-hours'  bite, 
My  awkart  muse  sair  pleads  and  begs 

I  would  na  write. 


The  tapetlcss  ramfeezl'd  hizzie, 
She's  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 
Quo'  she,  "Ye  ken,  we've  been  sae  busy, 

This  mouth  an'  mair, 
That  trouth  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie 

An'  something  sair." 


Her  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad ; 
"  Conscience,"  says  I,  "  yc  thowless  jad ! 
I'll  write,  an'  that  a  hearty  blaud, 

This  vera  night ; 
So  dinna  yo  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right. 


"  Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  o' hearts, 
Tho'  mankind  were  a  pack  o'  cartes, 
Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

In  terms  so  friendly 
Yet  ye'll  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts, 

An'  thank  him  kindly  ! 


Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink, 
An'  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink : 
Quoth  J,  "  Before  I  sleep  a  wink, 

1  vow  I'll  close  it; 
An'  if  ye  winna  niak  it  clink, 

By  Jove  I'll  prose  it!" 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


63 


Sao  I've  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 
In  rhymo  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither, 
Or  some  hotch-potch  that's  rightly  neither, 
Let  time  mak'  proof; 
But  I  shall  scribble  down  some  blether 
Just  clean  aff-loof. 


My  worthy  friend,  ne'er  grudge  an'  carp, 
Tho' fortune  use  you  hard  an'  sharp  ; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland  harp 

Wi'  gleesome  touch ! 
Ne'er  mind  how  fortune  waft  an'  warp  ; 
She's  but  a  b-tch. 


She's  gien  me  monie  a  jirt  an'  fleg, 
Sin'  I  could  striddle  owrc  a  rig; 
But,  by  the  L— d,  tho'  I  should  beg 

\\T  lyart  pow, 
I'll  laugh,  an'  6ing,  an'  shake  my  leg, 
As  lang^s  I  dow  ! 


Now  comes  the  sax  an'  twentieth  simmer 
I've  seen  the  bud  upo'  the  timmer, 
Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer 

Frae  year  to  year  ; 
But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 
/,  Rob,  am  here. 


Do  ye  envy  the  city  Gent, 
Behint  a  kist  to  lie  and  sklent, 
Or  purse-proud,  big  wi'  cent,  per  cent. 

And  muekle  wame, 
In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

A  Bailies  name ? 


Or  is't  the  paughty  feudal  Thane, 
Wi'  ruffl'd  sark  an'  glancin'  cane, 
Wha  thinks  liimsel  nae  sheep  shank  bane, 

But  lordly  stalks, 
While  caps  and  bonnets  aff  are  ta'en, 

As  by  he  walks  ? 


"  O  Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift ! 
Gio  me  o'  wit  an'  sense  a  lift, 
Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift, 

Thro'  Scotland  wide ; 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift, 

In  a'  their  pride !" 


Were  this  tho  charier  of  our  state, 
u  On  pain  o'  hell  be  rich  an'  great," 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate, 

Beyond  remead ; 
But,  thanks  to  Heav'n !  that's  no  the  gate 

We  learn  our  creed. 


For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 
When  first  the  human  race  began, 
"  The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 

\\  hitc'er  he  be, 
'Tis  he  fulfils  great  Nature's  plan, 

An'  none  but  he .'" 


O  mandate  glorious  and  divine  ! 
Tho  ragged  followers  of  the  Nine, 
Poor,  thoughtless  devils !  yet  may  shine 

In  glorious  liiiht, 
Wliilc  sordid  sons  of  Mammon's  line 

Are  dark  as  night. 


Tho'  here  they  scrape,  an'  squeeze,  an'  growl, 
Their  worthless  nievefu'  of  a  soul 
May  in  some  future  carcase  howl, 

The  forest's  fright ; 
Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 


Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 
To  reach  their  native,  kindred  skies, 
And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  an'  joys, 

In  some  mild  sphere, 
Still  closer  knit  in  friendship's  tic 

Each  passing  year. 


TO  W.  S  *****  N, 
OCHILTREE. 


May,  178& 


"  I  gat  your  letter,  winsome  Willie ; 
Wi'  gratefu'  heart  I  thank  you  brawlie ; 
Tho'  I  maun  say't,  I  wad  be  silly, 

An'  unco  vain, 
Should  I  believe  my  coaxin'  billie, 

Your  flatterin  strain. 


But  I'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 
I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelin's  sklented 

On  my  poor  Musie ; 
Tho'  in  sic  phrasin'  terms  ye've  penn'd  it 
I  scarce  excuse  ye. 


My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel 
Should  I  but  dare  a  hope  to  speel 
Wi'  Allan,  or  wi'  Gilbertfield, 

Tho  braes  o'  fame ; 
Or  Fergusson,  the  writer-chiel 

A  deathless  name. 


54 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


(O  Fergunan !  thy  glorious  parts 
111  suited  law's  dry,  musty  arts  ! 
My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  Enbrugh  Gentry ! 
The  tytlie  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes, 

Wad  stow'd  Ids  pantry  !) 


Yot  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head, 
Or  lasses  gic  my  heart  a  screed, 
As  whyles  they're  like  to  be  my  deed, 

(O  sad  disease !) 
I  kittle  up  my  rustic  rad; 

It  gics  me  ease. 


Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu'  fain, 
She's  irotten  Poets  o'  her  am. 
duels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain, 

But  tune  their  lays, 
Till  echoes  a'  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 


Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 
To  set  her  name  in  measur'd  style  ; 
She  lay  like  some  unkenn'd-of  isle 

Beside  New  Holland, 
Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 

Besouth  Magellan. 


Ramsay  an'  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  an'  Toy  a  lift  aboon ; 
Yarrow  an'  Tweed  to  monie  a  tune, 

Owre  Scotland  rings, 
While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  an'  Doon, 

Nae  body  sings. 


Th'  Missus,  Tiber,  TJutmes,  an'  Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu'  line ! 
But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine, 

An  cock  your  crest, 
We'll  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 

Up  wi'  the  best. 


We'll  sing  auld  Coda's  plains  an'  fells, 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi'  heather  bells, 
Her  banks  an'  braes,  her  dens  and  dells, 

Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southron  billies. 


At  Wallace'  name  what  Scottish  blood 
P.ut  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood1. 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side, 
Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat-shod, 

Or  glorious  dy'd. 


O,  Sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  an'  woods, 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buds, 
And  jinkin  hares,  in  amorous  whids, 

Their  loves  enjoy, 
While  thro'  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

With  wailfu'  cry! 

Ev'n  winter  bleak  has  charms  for  me 
When  winds  rave  thro'  the  naked  tree; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

A  re  hoary  gray ; 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Uark'ning  the  day  1 

O  Nature !  a'  thy  shows  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  I 
Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms, 

Wi'  life  an'  light, 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

The  lang,  dark  night ! , 

The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel,  he  leam'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander, 

An'  no  think  lang ; 
O  sweet !  to  stray,  an'  pensive  ponder 

A  heart-felt  sang  1 

The  warly  race  may  drudge  an'  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch,  an'  strive, 
Let  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive, 

And  I,  wi'  pleasure, 
Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  hive 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 


Fareweel,  "  my  rhyme-composing  brither ! 
We've  been  owre  lang  unkenn'd  to  ither : 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal : 
May  Envy  wallop  in  a  tether, 

Black  fiend,  infernal  I 

While  highlandmen  hate  tolls  and  taxes ; 
While  moorlan'  herds  like  guid  fat  braxies : 
Wliile  terra  firma,  on  her  axis 

Diurnal  turns, 
Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  an'  practice, 
In  Robert  Burns. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

My  memory's  no  worth  a  preen ; 
T  had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 
Yc  bado  me  write  you  what  they  mean 

By  this  New-Light,* 
'Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 

Maist  like  to  fight. 

*  See  note,  page  18. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


55 


In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans 
At  grammar,  logic,  an'  sic  talents, 
They  took  nac  pains  their  speech  to  balance, 

Or  rules  to  gie, 
But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain,  braid  lallans, 

Liko  you  or  me. 

In  thac  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon, 
Just  like  a  sark,  or  pair  o'  shoon, 
Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon, 

Gaed  past  their  viewing, 
An'  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

They  gat  a  new  one. 

This  past  for  certain,  undisputed  ; 
It  ne'er  cam  i'  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 
Till  cliiels  gat  up  an'  wad  confute  it, 

An'  ca'd  it  wrang ; 
An'  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  wcel  lcarn'd  upo'  the  beuk, 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk ; 
For  'twas  the  auld  moon  turn'd  a  neuk, 
An'  out  o'  sight, 
An'  backUns-comin,  to  the  leuk, 

She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  deny'd,  it  was  affirm'd  ; 
The  herds  an'  hisscls  were  alarm'd  : 
The  rev'rend  gray-beards  rav'd  an'  storm'd, 

That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform'd 

Than  their  auld  daddies. 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks  ; 
Frae  words  an'  aiths  to  clours  an'  nicks ; 
An'  monie  a  fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi'  hearty  crunt ; 
An'  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks, 

Were  hang'd  an'  burnt. 

This  game  was  play'd  in  monie  lands, 
An'  auld-light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 
That  faith  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 
Wi'  nimble  shanks, 
The  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands, 
Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  new-light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe, 
Folk  thought  them  ruin'd  stick-an'-stowe, 
Till  now  amaist  on  ev'ry  knowe, 

Ye'U  find  ane  plac'd ; 
An'  some,  their  new-light  fair  avow, 

Just  quite  barefac'd. 

Nae  doubt  tho  auld-light  flocks  are  bleatin  ; 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex'd  an'  sweatin ; 
Mysel,  I've  even  seen  them  greetin 

Wi'  girnin  spite, 
To  hoar  the  moon  sae  sadly  lie'd  on 

By  word  an'  write. 


But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  louns  ! 
Some  auld-light  herds  in  neebor  towns 
Are  mind't,  in  things  they  ca'  balloons, 

To  tak  a  flight, 
An'  stay  a  month  amang  the  moons 

An'  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them  ; 
An'  when  the  auld  moon's  gaun  to  lea'e  them, 
The  hindmost  shaird,  they'll  fetch  it  wi'  them, 

Just  i'  their  pouch, 
An'  when  the  new-light  billies  see  tlicm, 

I  think  they'll  crouch  ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a'  this  clatter 
Is  naething  but  a  "  moonshine  matter ;" 
But  tho'  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 

In  logic  lulzie, 
I  hope,  we  bardies  ken  some  better 

Than  mind  sicbrulzie.' 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  R****** 


ENCLOSING  SOME  POEMS. 


O  rough,  rude,  ready-witted,  R******, 
The  wale  o'  cocks  for  fun  an'  drinkin ! 
There's  mony  godly  folks  are  thinkin, 

Your  dreams*  an'  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin, 

Straught  to  auld  Nick's. 


Ye  hae  sae  monie  cracks  an'  cants, 
And  in  your  wicked  drucken  rants, 
Ye  mak  a  devil  o'  the  saunts, 

An'  fill  them  fou ; 
And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  an'  wants, 

Are  a'  seen  thro'. 


Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 
That  holy  robe,  O  dinna  tear  it ! 
Spare  't  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it, 

The  lads  in  black  ! 
But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 

Rives  't  aff  their  back. 


Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye're  skaithing, 
Its  just  the  blue-gown  badge  an'  claithing 
O'  saunts  ;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  naething 

To  ken  them  by, 
Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 

Like  you  or  I. 


*  A  certain  humorous  dream  of  his  was  then  making 
a  noise  in  the  country-side. 


56 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


I've  sent  you  homo  some  rhyming  ware, 
A'  that  I  bargain'd  for  an'  mair; 
Sae,  when  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 
I  will  expect 
Yon  sang,*  yell  sen't  wi'  cannie  care, 
And  no  ne<dect. 


Tho'  faith,  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  sing  1 
My  muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing  ! 
I've  play'd  mysel  abonnie  spring, 

An'  danc'd  my  fill  ! 
I'd  better  gano  an'  sair'il  the  king, 

At  Bunker's  HUL. 


'Twas  ac  night  lately  in  my  fun, 
I  gacd  a  roving  wi'  the  gun, 
An'  brought  upailrick  to  the  grun, 

A  boiinic  hen, 
And,  as  the  twilight  was  begun, 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 


The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hurt ; 
I  straikit  it  a  wee  for  sport, 
Ne'er  thinkin  they  wad  fash  mo  for't ; 

But,  deil-ma-care  ! 
Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 

The  hale  affair. 


Some  auld  us'd  hands  had  ta'en  a  note, 
That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot ; 
I  was  suspected  for  the  plot ; 

I  scorn'd  to  lie ; 
So  gat  tho  whisslo  o'  my  groat, 

An'  pay't  the  fee. 

But,  by  my  gun,  o'  guns  the  wale, 
An'  by  my  pouther  an'  my  hail, 
An'  by  my  hen,  an'  by  her  tad, 

I  vow  an'  swear  ! 
The  game  shall  pay  o'er  moor  an'  dale, 

For  this,  nicst  year. 


As  soon's  the  clockin-time  is  by, 
An'  the  wee  pouts  begun  to  cry, 
L — d,  Fsc  hae  sportin  by  an'  by, 

For  my  gowd  guinea : 
Tho'  I  should  herd  the  buckskin  k]  e 

For't  in  Virginia. 


Trowth,  they  had  muckle  for  to  blame  ! 
'Twas  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb, 
But  twa-thrco  draps  about  tho  wanie 

Scarce  thro'  the  feathers; 
Au'  baith  a  yellow  George  to  claim, 

An'  thole  their  blethers ! 


It  pits  me  ay  as  mad's  a  hare ; 
So  I  can  rhymo  nor  write  nao  mair  ; 

1    <mg  he  had  promised  the  Author. 


But  pennywortiis  again  is  fair, 

When  time's  expedient : 
Mcanwlnlo  I  am,  respected  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient. 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN,* 


A  BALLAD. 


I. 


There  were  three  kings  into  the  east, 
Three  kings  both  great  and  high, 

An'  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

U. 

They  took  a  plough  and  plough'd  him  down, 

Put  clods  upon  his  head, 
And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

Jolm  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

in. 

But  tho  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on 

And  showr's  began  to  fall ; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  soro  surprised  them  all. 

IV. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 
And  he  grew  thick  and  strong, 

His  head  wcel  arm'd  wi'  pointed  spears? 
That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

V. 

The  sober  autumn  enter 'd  mild, 

When  he  grew  wan  and  pale  ; 
His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 

Show'd  he  began  to  fail. 

VI. 

His  colour  sicken'd  more  and  more, 

He  faded  into  age  ; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

vn. 

They'vo  ta'en  a  weapon  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 
Then  ty'd  him  fast  upon  a  cart, 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 

•  This  is  parity  composed  on  the  plan  of  an  old  song 
known  by  the  same  namci 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


57 


vm. 


They  laid  him  down  upon  his  hack, 
And  cudgell'd  him  full  sore  ; 

They  hong  him  up  before  the  storm, 
And  turn'd  him  o'er  and  o'er. 


IX. 


They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 
With  water  to  the  brim, 

Thoy  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 
There  let  Mm  sink  or  swim. 


X. 


They  laid  liim  out  upon  the  floor, 
To  work  him  farther  wo, 

And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appear'd, 
They  toss'd  him  to  and  fro. 

XI. 


They  wasted,  o'er  a  scorching  flame, 

The  marrow  of  his  bones  ; 
But  a  miller  us'd  him  worst  of  all,' 

For  he  crush'd  him  between  two  stones. 


XII. 

And  they  hae  ta'en  his  very  heart's  blood, 
And  drank  it  round  and  round  ; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 


xm. 


Jolrn  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise, 
For  if  you  do  but  taste  Ms  blood, 

'Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

xrv. 


'Twill  make  a  man  forget  his  wo ; 

"Twill  heighten  all  Ins  joy : 
Twill  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing, 

Tho'  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 


XV. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 
Each  man  a  ghiss  in  hand ; 

And  may  his  great  posterity 
Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland'  ' 

E2 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Tune—"  Gillicrankie." 


1. 


When  Guilford  good  our  pilot  stood, 

And  did  our  helm  thraw,  man, 
Ac  night,  at  tea,  began  a  plea, 

^V  it  liin  America,  man  : 
Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin-pat, 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man  ; 
An'  did  nao  less,  in  full  congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 


II. 


Then  thro'  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 

I  wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man  ; 
Down  Lowries  burn  he  took  a  turn, 

And  Carleton  did  ca',  man : 
But  yet,  what  reck,  he,  at  Quebec, 

Montgomery-like  did  fa',  man, 
Wi'  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 

Amang  Ms  en'mies  a',  man. 

m. 

Poor  Tammy  Gage,  within  a  cage 

Was  kept  at  Boston  ha\  man  ; 
Till  Willie  Howe  took  o'er  the  knowe 

For  Philadelphia,  man : 
Wi'  sword  an'  gun  he  thought  a  sin 

Gmd  christian  blood  to  draw,  man ; 
But  at  New-York,  wi'  knife  an'  fork, 

Sir-lorn  he  hacked  sma',  man. 

IV. 

Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spur  an'  wliip, 

Till  Fraser  brave  did  fa',  man; 
Then  lost  Ms  way,  ae  misty  day, 

In  Saratoga  shaw,  man. 
Cornwallis  fought  as  lang's  he  dought, 

An'  did  the  buckskms  claw,  man ; 
But  Clinton's  glaive  frae  rust  to  save, 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa',  man, 


V. 


Then  Montague,  an'  Guilford  too, 

Began  to  fear  a  fa',  man ; 
And  Saekville  doure,  wha  stood  the  stouro, 

The  German  clnef  to  thraw,  man  : 
For  Paddy  Burkes  like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a',  man  ; 
And  Charlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box, 

An'  lows'd  lus  tmldcr  jaw  man. 


58 


BURNS'  POEMS- 


VI. 


Then  RocMnghom  took  up  the  game ; 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca'.  man  ; 
When  Shetirurne  meek  held  up  his  check, 

•  mi  to  gospel  law,  man  ; 
Saint  Stephen's  boys,  wi'  jarring  noise, 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man, 
For  A'orth  an'  Fox  united  stocks, 

An'  bore  him  to  the  wa\  man. 

VII. 

Then  clubs  an'  hearts  were  Charlie's  cartes, 

He  swept  the  stakes  awa\  man, 
Till  the  diamond's  ace,  of  Indian  race, 

Led  him  a  sua  faux  pas,  man : 
The  Saxon  lads,  wi'  loud  placads, 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca\  man  ; 
An1  Scotland  drew  her  pipe  an'  blew, 

"  Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a',  man !" 

vm. 

Behind  the  throne  then  GrenvilWs  gone, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man ; 
While  slee  Dundas  arous'd  the  class 

Be-north  the  Roman  wa\  man  : 
An'  Cliaihams  wraith,  in  heavenly  graith, 

(Inspired  bardies  saw,  man) 
Wi'  kindling  eyes  cry'd,  "  Willie,  rise  ! 

Would  I  hae  fear'd  them  a',  man  ?" 

IX. 

But,  word  an'  blow.  Norths  Fox,  and  Co. 

Gowff'd  Willie  like  a  ba,'  man, 
Till  Suthron  raise,  and  coost  their  claise 

Behind  him  in  a  raw,  man  ; 
An'  Calcdon  threw  by  the  drone, 

An'  did  her  whittle  draw,  man ; 
An'  swoor  fu'  rude,  thro'  dirt  an'  blood 

To  make  it  guid  in  law  man. 

*        *         *        *        * 


SONG. 

Tune— "  Corn  rigs  are  bonnie." 
I. 

It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 

When  corn  rige  are  bonnie. 
Beneath  the  moon's  unclouded  light, 

I  held  awa  to  Annie  : 
The  time  flew  by  wi'  tentless  heed, 

Till  'tween  the  late  and  early  ; 
Wi'  sina'  persuasion  she  agreed, 

To  see  me  thro'  the  barley. 


IT. 


The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still, 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly  ; 
I  set  her  down,  wi'  right  good  will, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley  : 
I  kenn't  her  heart  was  a'  my  ain  ; 

1  lov'd  her  most  sincerely  ; 
I  kiss'd  her  owrc  and  owre  again 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

III. 

I  lock'd  her  in  my  fond  embrace  ; 

Her  heart  was' beating  rarely : 
My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley  ! 
But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright, 

That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly 
She  ay  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

VI. 

I  hae  been  blythe  wi'  comrades  dear ; 

I  hae  been  merry  drinkin ; 
I  hae  been  joyfu'  gathrin  gear  ; 

I  hae  been  happy  thinkin  : 
But  a'  the  pleasures  e'er  I  saw, 

Tho'  three  tunes  doubled  fairly, 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a', 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 


Corn  rigs,  an*  barley  rigs,  ■ 
An1  corn  rigs  are  bonnie : 

HI  ne'er  forget  thai  happy  night, 
Aviang  tMrigs  w?  Annie. 


SONG. 

COMPOSED  IN  AUGUST. 

Tcnk— "  I  had  a  horse  I  had  nae  mair." 

I. 

Now  westlin  winds,  and  slaughtering  guns 

Bring  autumn's  pleasant  weather  ;  _ 
The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 

Amang  the  blooming  heather ; 
Now  waving  grain,  wide  o'er  the  plain,  _ 

Delights  the  weary  farmer ;  [night, 

And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  I  rove  at 

To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 

II. 

The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells ; 

The  plover  loves  the  mountains  ; 
The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells ; 

Tho  soaring  hern  tho  fountains : 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


59 


Thro'  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 
The  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 

The  hazel  hush  o'erliangs  the  thrush, 
The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 

in. 

Thus  ev'ry  kind  their  pleasure  find, 

The  savage  and  the  tender ; 
Some  social  join,  and  leagues  comhine; 

Some  solitary  wander : 
Avaunt,  away  !  the  cruel  sway, 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion ; 
The  sportsman's  joy,  the  murd'ring  cry, 

The  flutt'ring,  gory  pinion ! 

IV. 

But  Peggy  dear,  the  ev'ning's  clear, 

Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow ; 
The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view, 

All  fading-green  and  yellow : 
Come  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way, 

And  view  the  charms  of  nature ; 
The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn, 

And  every  happy  creature. 

V. 

We'll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk, 

Till  the  silent  moon  shine  clearly ; 
I'll  grasp  thy  waist,  and,  fondly  prest, 

Swear  how  I  love  thee  dearly : 
Not  vernal  show'rs  to  budding  flow'rs, 

Not  autum  to  the  farmer, 
So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me, 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer.' 


SONG. 


Tune—"  My  Nannie,  O." 


Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar*  flows, 
'Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  O 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  clos'd, 
And  111  awa  to  Nannie,  O. 


17. 


The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  an'  sliill ; 

The  night's  baith  mirk  an'  rainy,  O  ; 
But  I'll  get  my  plaid,  an'  out  I'll  steal, 

An'  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  O. 

•  Originally,  Stinchar. 


m. 


My  Nannie's  charming,  sweet,  an'  young : 
Nao  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  O : 

May  ill  befa'  the  flattering  tongue 
That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O. 

IV. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 
As  spotless  as  she's  bonnie,  O : 

The  op'ning  gowan,  wet  wi'  dew, 
Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O. 


A  country  lad  is  my  degree, 

An'  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O ; 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be, 
I'm  welcome  ay  to  Nannie,  O. 

VI. 

My  riches  a'  's  my  penny-fee, 
An'  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  O; 

But  warl's  gear  ne'er  troubles  me, 
My  thoughts  are  a'  my  Nannie,  O. 

vn. 

Our  auld  Guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  an'  kye  thrive  bonnie,  O ; 

But  I'm  as  blythe  that  hauds  his  pleugh, 
An'  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  O. 

VUI. 

Come  weel,  come  wo,  I  care  na  by, 
I'll  tak  what  Heav'n  will  sen'  me,  O ; 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live,  an'  love  my  Nannie,  O. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend, 

Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  O  ! 


I. 


There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han', 

In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O ; 
What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 

An'  'twero  na  for  tho  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  &c. 


60 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


TI. 


The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 
An1  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O; 

An'  tho'  at  lust  they  catch  them  last, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 

Green  grow,  Sec. 

III. 

But  gic  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 
An'  warly  cares,  an'  warly  men, 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O  ! 

Green  grow,  Sec. 


IV 


For  you  sae  douse,  yc  sneer  at  this, 
Ye'er  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O : 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 
He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  Sec. 


V. 


Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O  : 

Her  'prentice  han'  she  try'd  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 

Green  grow,  &c 


SONG. 

Tone—"  Jockey's  Grey  Brecks  * 
I. 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 

Her  robe  assume  its  vernal  hues, 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 
All  freshly  stcep'd  in  morning  dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And  maun  J  still  on  Menief  doat, 
And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e"e? 

For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an"  it's  like  a  hawk, 
Art  it  toinna  let  a  body  be ! 


In  vain  to  mc  the  cowslips  blaw, 

In  vain  to  me  the  vi'lets  spring; 
In  vain  to  mc,  in  glen  or  shaw, 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

And  maun  I  still,  Sec. 

*  Thta  chorus  is  part  of  a  son?  composed  by  a  gem  leman 
in  Edinburgh.  D  particular  friend  of  the  author's, 
t  .i;  imon  abbreviation  of  JWanantno. 


m. 


The  merry  ploughhoy  cheers  his  team, 
Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks, 

But  life  to  me  's  a  weary  dream, 
A  dream  of  ane-that  never  wauks. 

And  maun  I  still,  Sec. 

IV. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 
Among  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 
And  every  thing  is  blest  but  I. 

And  maun  I  still,  Sec. 


V. 


The  sheep-herd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 
And  owre  the  moorlands  whistles  shill, 

Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wand'ring  step 
I  met  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  maun  I  still,  &o, 

VI. 

And  when  the  lark,  'tween  linlit.  and  dark, 
Blythc  waukensby  the  daisy's  side, 

And  mounts  and  simrs  on  flittering  wings, 
A  wo-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide. 

And  maun  I  still,  Sec. 

VII. 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl, 
And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree; 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul, 
When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me! 

CHORUS. 

And  maun  I  still  on  Menic  doat, 
And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  ? 

For  ifs  jet,  jet  black,  an1  iCs  like  a  hawk, 
Art  it  winna  let  a  body  be.* 


SONG 

Tone— "Roslin  Castle." 

I. 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast, 
Loud  roars  tho  wild  inconstant  blast, 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain ; 

*  Wo  cannot  presume  to  alter  any  of  the  poems  of 
our  bard,  and  more  especially  those  printed  under  bis- 
own  direction ;  yet  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  chorus, 
which  is  not  of  his  own  composition,  should  be  at- 
tached to  those  fine  stanzas,  as  it  perpetually  interrupts 
the  train  of  sentiment  which  they  excite.    E. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


61 


Tlio  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor, 
The  scattered  coveys  meet  secure, 
While  here  I  wander,  prest  with  care, 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

II. 

The  Autumn  mourns  her  rip'ning  corn 
By  early  Winter's  ravage  torn ; 
Across  her  placid,  azure  sky, 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly ; 
Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave, 
1  think  upon  the  stormy  wave, 
Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare, 
Far  from  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 

HI. 

'Tis  not  the  surging  billow's  roar, 
'Tis  not  that  fatal  deadly  shore  ; 
Tho'  death  in  every  shape  appear, 
The  wretched  have  no  more  to  fear : 
But  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound, 
That  heart  feranspiere'd  with  many  a  wound; 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear, 
To  leave  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr. 


IV. 


Farewell,  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales, 
Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales ; 
The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past,  unhappy  loves  ! 
Farewell,  my  friends  !  Farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those — 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare, 
Farewell  the  bonnie  banks  o£Ayr. 


SONG. 


Tune—"  Guilderoy." 

I. 

From  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go,     | 
,      And  from  my  native  shore  ;    \ 
L  The  cruel  fates  between  us  throw 
•      A  boundless  ocean's  roar  : 
'  But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide, 

Between  my  love  and  me, 
They  never,  never  can  divide 
My  heart  and  soul  from  thee. 

II. 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  maid  that  I  adore  ! 
A  boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear, 

We  part  to  meet  no  more ! 


But  tho  last  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 
While  death  stands  victor  by, 

That  thiol),  Eliza,  is  thy  part, 
And  tliino  the  latest  sigh ! 


THE  FAREWELL 


BRETHREN  OF  ST.  JAMES'S  LODGE, 

TARBOLTON. 

Tune — "  Good  night  and  joy  bo  wi'  you  a' !" 

I. 

Adieu  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu  I 

Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tye  I 
Ye  favour'd,  ye  enlightened  few, 

Companions  of  my  social  joy  1 
Tho'  I  to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 

Pursuing  Fortune's  slidd'ry  ba', 
With  melting  heart,  and  brimful  eye, 

I'll  mind  you  still,  tho'  far  awa.' 

n. 

Oft  have  I  met  your  social  band, 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night ; 
Oft,  honour'd  with  supreme  command, 

Presided  o'er  the  soils  of  light : 
And  by  that  hieroglyphic  bright, 

Which  none  but  craftsmen  ever  saw ! 
Strong  mem'ry  on  my  heart  shall  write 

Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa.' 

in. 

May  freedom,  harmony,  and  love, 

Unite  us  in  the  grand  design, 
Beneath  th'  omniscient  eye  above, 

The  glorious  architect  divine ! 
That  you  may  keep  th'  unerring  line, 

Still  rising  by  the  plummet's  law, 
Till  order  bright  completely  shine, 

Shall  be  my  pray'r  when  far  awa'. 

IV. 

And  you  farewell !  whose  merits  claim, 

Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear  ! 
Heav'n  bless  your  honour'd,  noble  name, 

To  Masonry  and  Scotia  dear  1 
A  last  request  permit  me  here, 

When  yearly  ye  assemble  a', 
One  round,  I  ask  it  with  a  tear, 

To  lum,  the  Bard  that's  far  awa\ 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


SONG. 

Tune — "  Prepare,  my  dear  brethren,  to  tho 
Tavern  let's  fly." 


No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to  write, 
No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to  fight, 
No  sly  man  of  business  contriving  a  snare, 
For  a  big-belly'd  bottle's  the  whole  of  my  care. 


II. 


The  peer  I  don't  envy,  I  give  him  hie  bow ; 
I  scorn  not  the  peasant,  though  ever  so  low ; 
But  a  club  of  good  fellows,  hive  those  that  are 

here, 
And  a  bottle  like  tins,  are  my  glory  and  care. 


m. 


Here   passes  the  squire   on  his  brother — liis 

horse ; 
There  centum  per  centum,  the  cit,  with  his 

purse; 
But  see  you  the  Crown  how  it  waves  in  the  air, 
There,  a  big-belly'd  bottle  still  ceases  my  care. 

IV. 

The  wifo  of  my  bosom,  alas !  she  did  die  ; 
For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I  did  fly ; 
I  found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair, 
That  a  big-belly'd  bottle's  a  cure  for  all  care. 


V. 


I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to  make  ; 
A  letter  mform'd  me  that  all  was  to  wreck ; — 
But  the  pursy  old  landlord  just  waddled  up 

stairs, 
With  a  glorious  bottle  that  ended  my  cares. 

VI. 

w  Life's  cares  they  are  comforts,"* — a  maxim 

laid  down 
By  the  bard,  what  d'ye  call  him  that  wore  the 

black  jfown ; 
And  faith  I  agree  with  th'  old  prig  to  a  hair ; 
For  a  big-belly'd  bottle's  a  heav'n  of  care. 

A  Stanza  added  in  a  Mason  Lodge. 

Then  fill  up  a  bumper  and  make  it  o'erflow, 
And  honours  masonic  preparo  for  to  tlirow; 
May  every  true  brother  of  the  compass  and 

square 
Have  a  big-belly'd  bottle  when  harass'd  with 

care. 

*  Young's  Night  Thoughts*. 


WRITTEN  IN 

FRIARS-CARSE  HERMITAGE, 

ON  NITH-SIDE. 


Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, — 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed, 
lie  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole, 
Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darknosslost ; 
I  fope  not  sunshine  ev'ry  hour, 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

As  youth  and  love  with  sprightly  dance, 
Beneath  thy  morning  star  advance, 
Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair ; 
Let  prudence  bless  enjoyment's  cup, 
Then  raptur'd  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high, 
Life's  meridian  flaming  nigh, 
Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 
Life's  proud  summit  wouldst  thou  scale  ? 
Check  thy  climbing  step,  elate, 
Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait : 
Dangers,  eaglc-pinion'd,  bold, 
Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold, 
While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song, 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  ev'ning  close, 
Beck'ning  thee  to  long  repose  ; 
As  life  itself  becomes  disease, 
Seek  the  chimney-neuk  of  case. 
There  ruminate  with  sober  thought, 
On  all  thou'st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 
Say,  man's  true,  genuine  estimate, 
The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate, 
Is  not,  Art  thou  so  high  or  low  ? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 
Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind, 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find, 
The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heav'n 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  is  giv'n. 
Say,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise, 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways, 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile,  and  base. 

Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep; 
Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne'er  awake, 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


63 


Till  future  lifo,  futuro  no  more, 
To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 
To  Light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

Stranger,  go  !  Heav'n  be  thy  guide ! 
Quod  the  beadsman  of  Nith-side. 


ODE, 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 


MRS. 


OF 


Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark, 
Hangman  of  creation !  mark 
Who  in  widow-weeds  appears, 
Laden  with  unhonour'd  years, 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse, 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  I 


View  the  wither'd  beldam's  face- 
Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace 
Aught  of  humanity's  sweet,  melting  grace ! 
Note  that  eye,  'tis  rheum  o'erfiows, 
Pity's  flood  there  never  rose. 
See  those  hands,  ne'er  stretch'd  to  save, 
Hands  that  took — but  never  gave. 
Keeper  of  Mammon's  iron  chest, 
Lo,  there  she  goes,  unpitied  and  unblest 
She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  everlasting  rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 


Plunderer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes, 
(A  while  forbear,  ye  tort'ring  fiends,) 
Seest  thou  whose  step  unwilling  hither  bends ! 

No  fallen  angel,  hurl'd  from  upper  skies ; 
'Tis  thy  trusty  quondam  mate, 
Doom'd  to  share  thy  fiery  fate, 

She,  tardy,  hell-ward  plies. 


And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 
Ten  thousand  glitt'ring  pounds  a  year  ? 

In  other  worlds  can  Mammon  fail, 
Omnipotent  as  he  is  here  ? 
O.  bitter  mock'ry  of  the  pompous  bier, 
While  down  the  wretched  vital  pari  is  driv'n ! 

The  cave-lodg'd  beggar,  with  a  conscience 
clear, 
Expires    in    rags    unknown,    and    goes    to 
Heav'n. 


ELEGY 


CAPT.  MATTHEW  HENDERSON, 

A   GENTLEMAN    WHO  HELD  THE  PATENT  FOR  HIS 
HONOURS  IMMEDIATELY  FROM  ALMIGHTY  GOD. 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 
For  Matthew's  course  was  bright; 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun, 
A  matchless,  Hcav'nly  Light ! 

O  death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody ! 
The  meikle  devil  wi'  a  woodie 
Haurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 

O'er  hurcheon  hides, 
And  like  stock-fish  come  o'er  his  studdie 
Wi'  thy  auld  sides  I 

He's  gane,  he's  gane !  he's  frae  us  torn, 
The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born  ! 
Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sel  shall  mourn 

By  wood  and  wild, 
Where,  haply,  pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exil'd. 

Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o'  the  starns, 
That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 

Where  echo  slumbers ! 
Come  join,  ye  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns, 

My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilk  a  grove  the  cushat  kens ! 
Ye  haz'lly  shaws  and  briery  dens ! 
Ye  burnies,  whimplin  down  your  fflens, 

Wi'  toddlin  din^ 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi,  hasty  stens, 
Frae  lin  to  lin. 

Mourn  little  harebells  o'er  the  lee  ; 
Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see  ; 
Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bow'rs ; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o'  flow'rs. 

At  dawn,  when  ev'ry  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a  diamond  at  his  head, 
At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

P  th'  rustling  gale, 
Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro'  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood ; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud ; 
Ye  curlews  calling  thro'  a  clud ; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitriek  brood ; 

He's  gane  for  ever ! 


64 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Moum,  sooty  cools,  and  speckled  teals, 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  any  wheels 

Circling  the  lake  ; 
Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 


Mourn,  clam'ring  craiks  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flowr'ing  clover  gay ; 
And  when  yo  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore, 
Tell  thae  far  worlds,  wha  lies  in  clay, 

Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  houlets,  frae  your  ivybow'r, 
In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow'r, 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow'r, 

Sets  up  her  born, 
Wail  thro'  tho  dreary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn ! 


O  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  I 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  strains : 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 

But  tales  of  wo; 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 


Mourn,  spring,  thou  darling  of  tho  year! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear : 
Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  head. 
Thy  gay,  green,  flow'ry  tresses  shear, 

For  him  that's  dead ! 


Thou,  autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair, 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear ! 
Thou,  winter,  hurling  thro1  the  air 

The  roaring  blast, 
Wide  o'er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we've  lost, ! 


Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 
And  you,  ye  twinkling  stamics,  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 
For  tliro'  your  orbs  he's  ta'en  his  flight, 
Ne'er  to  return. 


O  Henderson ;  tho  man !  tho  brother ! 
And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ! 
And  hast  thou  crosl  that  unknown  river, 
I  life's  dreary  bound! 
Like  thee,  where  shall  I  find  another, 
The  world  around  ! 


Goto  your  sculptur'd  tombs,  yo  Great, 
In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state ! 


But  by  Hie  honost  turf  111  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth  ! 

And  weep  the  ac  best  fellow's  fato 
E'er  lay  in  earth. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Stop,  passenger !  my  story's  brief; 

And  truth  1  shall  relate,  man; 
I  tell  nao  common  talc  o' grief, 

For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spum'd  at  fortune's  door,  man ; 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast, 

For  Matthew  was  a  poor  man. 

If  thou  anoblesodger  art, 

That  passes!  by  this  grave,  man, 

There  moulders  here  a  gallant  heart; 
For  Matthew  was  a  bravo  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways, 
Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man ; 

Here  lies  wha  weel  had  won  thy  praise, 
For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man. 

If  thou  at  friendship's  sacred  ca' 
Wad  life  itself  resign,  man  ; 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa,' 
For  Matthew  was  a  kind  man  ! 

If  thou  art  staunch  without  a  stain, 
Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man ; 

Tliis  was  a  kinsman  o'  thy  ain, 
For  Matthew  was  a  true  man. 

• 
If  thou  hast  wit,  and  fun,  and  fire, 

And  ne'er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man; 
This  was  thy  lullie.  dam,  and  sire, 

For  Matthew  was  a  queer  man. 

If  ony  whiggish  whingin  sot, 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man ; 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot, 
For  Matthew  was  a  rare  man. 


LAMENT 

OF 

MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS, 

ON   THE    APPROACH    OF    SPRING. 

Now  nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 
On  every  blooming  tree, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


65 


And  spreads  her  sheets  o'  daisies  white 

Out  o'er  the  grassy  lea : 
Now  Phoebus  cheers  tho  crystal  streams, 

And  "lads  the  azure  skies  ; 
Bui  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 

That  last  in  durance  lies. 


Now  lav 'rocks  wake  the  merry  morn, 

Aloft  on  dewy  wing  ; 
Tlie  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow'r, 

Makes  woodland  echoes  ring  ; 
The  mavis  mild,  wi'  many  a  note, 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest : 
In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

Wi'  care  nor  thrall  opprest. 


Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank, 

The  primrose  down  the  brae ; 
The  hawthorn  's  budding  in  the  glen, 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae  : 
The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 

May  rove  their  sweets  amang ; 
But  I,  the  Queen  of  a'  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  Strang. 


I  was  the  Queen  o'  bonnie  France, 

Where  happy  I  hae  been  ; 
Fu'  lightly  raise  I  in  the  morn, 

As  blythe  lay  down  at  e'en : 
And  I'm  the  sovereign  of  Scotland, 

And  mony  a  traitor  there  ; 
Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreign  bands, 

And  never  ending  care. 


But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman, 

My  sister  and  my  fae, 
Grim  vengeance,  yet  shall  whet  a  sword 

That  thro'  thy  soul  shall  gae  : 
The  weeping  blood  in  woman's  breast 

Was  never  known  to  thee  ; 
Nor  lh'  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  wo 

Frae  woman's  pitying  e'e. 


My  son  !  my  son  !  may  kinder  stars 

Upon  thy  fortune  shine  ; 
And  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign, 

That  ne'er  wad  blink  on  mine  ! 
God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother's  faes, 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee  : 
And  where  thou  meet'st  thy  mother's  friend, 

Remember  him  for  me  ! 


O  !  soon,  to  me,  may  summer-suns 

Nae  mail  light  up  the  morn  ! 
Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 

Wave  o'er  the  yellow  corn  ! 
And  in  the  narrow  house  o'  death 

Let  winter  round  me  rave ; 
And  the  next  flow'rs  that  deck  the  spring, 

Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave  ! 
F 


TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esq., 


OF  FINTRA. 


Late  crippl'd  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg, 
About  to  beg  a  pass  for  leave  to  beg  ; 
Dull,  listless,  teas'd,  dejected,  and  deprest, 
(Nature  is  adverse  to  a  cripple's  rest :) 
Will  generous  Graham  list  to  his  Poet's  wail  ? 
(It  soothes  poor  misery,  hcark'ning  to  her  tale,) 
And  hear  liim  curse  the  light  he  first  survcy'd, 
And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming  trade  ? 


Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature,  I  arraign ; 
Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I  complain. 
The  hon  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found, 
One  shakes  the  forests,  and  one  spurns  tho 

ground : 
Thou  giv'st  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snail  his  shell, 
Th'  envenom'd  wasp,  victorious   guards   his 

cell.— 
Thy  minions,  kings,  defend,  control,  devour, 
In  all  th'  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power. — 
Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtile  wiles  ensure  ; 
The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  secure. 
Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors   with   their 

drug, 
The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes  are 

snug. 
Ev'n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts, 
Her  tongue  and  eyes,  her  dreaded  spear  and 

darts. 


But  Oh  !  thou  bitter  step-mother  and  hard, 
To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked  child — the  Bard  ! 
A  thing  unteachable  in  world's  skill, 
And  half  an  idiot  too,  more  helpless  still. 
No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  op'ning  dun; 
No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  to  shun  ; 
No  horns,  but  those  by  luckless  Hymen  worn, 
And  those,  alas  !  not  Amalthea's  horn  ; 
No  nerves  olfact'ry,  Mammon's  trusty  cur, 
Clad  in  rich  dulness'  comfortable  fur, 
In  naked  feeling,  and  in  acliing  pride, 
He  bears  th'  unbroken  blast  from  ev'ry  side  : 
Vampyre  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 
And  scorpion  critics  careless  venom  dart. 


Critics — appall'd  I  venture  on  the  name, 
Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths  of  fame 
Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  Monroes  ; 
He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  expose. 

His  heart  by  causeless,  wanton  malice  wrung, 
By  blockheads' daring  into  madness  stung; 
His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear, 
By  miscreants  torn,  who  ne'er  one  sprig  must 

wear : 
Foil'd,  bleeding,  tortur'd,  in  the  unequal  strife 
The  hapless  poet  flounders  on  thro'  life. 


66 


BURNS'  POEMS- 


Till  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom  fir'd, 
And  Bed  each  muse  that  glorious  once  inspir'd, 
Low  sunk  in  squalid,  unprotected  age, 
Dead,  even  resentment,  for  his  injur  d  page, 
He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  rutliless  critic's 
rage  ! 

So,  by  some  hedge,  the  generous  steed  de- 
ceas'd. 
For  half-starv'd  snarling  curs  a  dainty  feast ; 
By  toil  and  famine  wore  to  skin  and  bone, 
Lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch's  son. 

0  dulness  !  portion  of  the  truly  blest  ! 
Calm  sheltered  baven  of  eternal  rest  ! 

Thy  sons  ne'er  madden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  fortune's  polar  frost,  or  torrid  beams. 
If  mantling  nigh  she  fills  the  golden  cup, 
With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up : 
Conscious  the  bounteous  meed  they  well  de- 
serve, 
They  only  wonder  "  some  folks"  do  not  starve. 
The  grave,  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his  frog, 
And  thinks  the  mallard  a  sad,  worthless  dog. 
When  disappointment  snaps  the  clue  of  hope, 
And  thro'  disastrous  night  they  darkling  grope, 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they  bear, 
And  just  conclude  that  "  fools  are  fortune's 

care." 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest's  shocks, 
Strong  on  the  sign-post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 

Not  so  the  idle  muses'  mad-cap  train, 
Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon-struck 

brain ; 
In  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 
By  turns  in  soaring  heav'n,  or  vaulted  hell. 

1  dread  thee,  fate,  relentless  and  severe, 
With  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's  fear  ! 
Already  on''  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost, 
Gleneairn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust ; 
(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips'd  as  noon  appears, 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears  :) 

O  !  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  pray'r! 
Fintra,  my  other  stay,  long  Mess  and  spare  ! 
Thro'  a  long  life  his  hopes  and  wishes  crown; 
And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  his  sun  go  down! 
May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private  path  ; 
Give  energy  to  life  ;    and  soothe    his   latest 

breath. 
With  many  a  filial  tear  circling  the  bed   of 

death  1 


Beneath  a  craigy  steep,  a  bard, 

Laden  with  years  and  meiklo  pain, 

In  loud  lament  bewail'd  his  lord, 
Whom  death  had  all  untimely  ta'en. 


lie  Iean'd  him  to  an  ancient  aik, 

Whose    trunk    was   mould'ring  down  with 
years ; 
His  locks  "were  bleached  white  wi'  time  ! 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi'  tears  ! 
And  as  he  touch'd  his  trembling  harp, 

And  as  he  tun'd  his  doleful  sang, 
The  winds,  lamenting  thro'  their  caves, 

To  echobore  the  notes  alang. 


"  Ye  scatter'd  birds  that  faintly  sing, 

The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire  ! 
Te  woods  that  shed  on  a'  the  winds 

The  honours  of  the  aged  year  ! 
A  few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay, 

Again  yo'll  charm  the  ear  and  e'e  ; 
But  notcht  in  all  revolving  time 

Can  gladness  bring  again»to  me. 


"  I  am  a  bending  aged  tree, 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and  rain  ; 
But  now  has  come  a  cruel  blast, 

And  my  last  hald  of  earth  is  gane  : 
Nae  leaf  o' mine  shall  greet  the  spring, 

Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom  ; 
But  J  maun  lie  before  the  storm, 

And  ithers  plant  them  in  my  room. 


"  I've  seen  sae  mony  changefu'  years, 

On  earth  I  am  a  stranger  grown  ; 
I  wander  in  the  w.t\  ^  of  men, 

Alike  unknowing  and  unknown  : 
Unheard,  unpitjed,  unreliev'd, 

1  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care, 
For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust, 

Lie  a'  that  would  my  sorrows  share. 


"  And  last  (the  sum  of  a'  my  griefs  !) 
My  noble  master  lies  in  clay  ; 

The  flow'r  amang  our  barons  bold, 
His  country's  pride,  his  country's  stay  : 

In 


LAMENT 


JAMES,  EARL  OF  GLENCA1RN. 

Tiif.  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills, 
By  fit--  the  sun's  departing  beam 
ilow  woods 
That  wav'd  o'er  Lugar's  winding  stream 


i  weary  being  now  I  pine, 
For  a'  the  life  ot'life  is  dead, 
And  hope  has  left  my  aged  ken, 
On  forward  wing  for  ever  lied. 


"  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  hnrp ! 

The  voice  of  wo  and  wild  despair  ; 
Awake,  resound  thy  latest  lay,  _ 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 
And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fiflestan  untimely  tomb, 
\  jcepl  ibis  tribute  from  the  bard 

Thou  brought  t mm  fortune's  mirkest  gloom. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


G7 


u  In  poverty's  low,  barren  valo, 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involved  mo  round  ; 
Though  oft]  turn'd  the  wistful  eye, 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found  : 
Thou  found'st  me,  like  the  morning  sun 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air, 
The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song, 

Became  alike  thy  fostering  care. 

"  O !  why  has  worth  so  short  a  date  ? 

While  villains  ripen  gray  with  time! 
Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen'rous,  great, 

Fall  in  bold  maidiood's  hardy  prune ! 
Why  did  I  live  to  see  that  day? 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  wo ! 
O !  had  I  met  the  mortal  shaft 

Which  laid  my  benefactor  low ! 

"  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen ; 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been ; 
The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee ; 
But  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencaim, 

And  a1  that  thou  hast  done  for  me  I" 


LINES 
SENT  TO  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD, 

OF  WHITEFOORD,  BART., 

WITH   THE    FOREGOING    POEM. 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever'st, 
Who,  save  thy  mind's  reproach,  nought  earthly 

fear*st. 
To  thee  this  votive  offering  I  impart, 
The  tearful  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 
The  friend  thou  valued'st,  I  the  patron  lov'd; 
His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world  approv'd. 
We'll  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has  gone, 
And  tread  the  dreary  path  to  that  dark  world 

unknown. 


TAM  O'  SHANTER. 
A  TALE. 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Buke. 
Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  nccbors,  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  arc  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 


While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  gettin  fou  and  unco  happy, 

We  think  na  on  the  king  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Wharc  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 


This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanler, 
As  he  frae  Ayr,  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr  whom  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 


O  Tarn !  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blelluin  ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober, 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 
That  cv'ry  naigwas  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on, 
That  at  the  L — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesy 'd,  that  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon; 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 


Ah,  gentle  dames !  it  gars  me  greet, 
To  tliink  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengthen'd  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  1 


But  to  our  tale :  Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely ; 
And  at  his  elbow,  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony  ; 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither;  _ 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better : 
The  landlady  and  Tarn  grew  gracious ; 
Wi'  favours,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious : 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tarn  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 


Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sac  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himself  amang  the  nappy ; 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi' pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious 
O'er"  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 


G8 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  tlit  ere  you  can  point  their  place  ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide; 
The  hour  approaches  Tarn  maun  ride; 
Thai  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  kcy-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  tho  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 


The  wind  blew  as  'twad  hlawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  show'rs  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd  ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bcllow'd  : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
Tho  dci'l  had  business  on  his  hand. 


Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 
Tarn  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet : 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet; 
Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares; 
Kirk-AUoway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. — 


By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd  ; 
And  past  tho  hirks  and  meiklc  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane; 
And  thro1  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  themurder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  abpon  the  well, 
Where  Mango's  mither  hang'd  hersel. — 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro1  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll; 
When,  glimmering  thro1  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-AUoway  seem'd  in  ableeze; 
Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing; 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. — 


Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  tho  devil ! — 
The  swats  sac  ream'd  in  Tammies  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  C&r'd  na  deils  a  boil. lie 
But  Ma  :■."  itood  righl  Bair  astonish'd, 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonisliM, 

She  ventur'd  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  vow  I  Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight! 


Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance ; 

Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 

Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sal  auld  Nick,  in  shape  6'  beast; 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  : 

He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a1  did  dirl. — 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 

And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  slight, 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, — 

By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 

To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee.  unchristen'd  bairns; 

A  thief,  new  cutted  frae  a  rape, 

Wi1  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red-rusted ; 

Five  scimitars,  wi1  murder  crusted  ; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 

A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  o1  life  bereft, 

The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 

Wi1  mair  o1  horrible  and  awfu', 

Which  ev'n  to  namo  wad  be  unlawfu'. 


As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious  : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reel'd.thcy  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark ! 


Now  Tarn,  O  Tarn  !  had  they  been  queans 
A1  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o1  creeshie  flannen. 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen  ! 
Thir  breeks  o1  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'cn  them  aff  my  hurdies, 
For  ae  blink  o1  the  bonnie  burdies ! 


But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodic  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  Hinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 


But  Tarn  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu1  brawlie, 
Thero  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  iulisted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore! 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  pensh'd  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 
■  ml  -hook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  tho  country-side  in  fear,') 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


69 


Here  cuttio  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.— • 
Ah !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches,) 
Wad  ever  grae'd  a  dance  of  witches  1 


But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow'r; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  ilang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang) 
And  how  Tain  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  e'en  enrich'd ; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anil  her, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a1  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark  l" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi1  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 
As  open  pussic's  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop !  she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When,  "  Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam  '.  ah,  Tarn !  thou'U.get  thy  fairin ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  wofu'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane*  of  the  brig ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie^s  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 
The  carlm  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 


Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Bk  man  and  mother's  son,  tak  heed : 


*  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  witches,  or  any  evil 
spirits,  have  no  power  to  follow  a  poor  wight  any  far- 
ther than  the  middle  of  the  next  running  stream. — it 
may  be  proper  likewise  to  mention  to  the  benighted 
traveller,  that  when  he  falls  in  with  bogles,  whatever 
danger  may  he  in  his  going  forward,  there  is  much 
more  hazard  in  turning  back. 


Whene'er  to,  drink  you  are  inclin'd, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Turn  o'  S  tantcr's  mare. 


ON  SEEING  A  WOUNDED  HARE 
LIMP  BY  ME, 

WHICH    A    FELLOW    HAD   JUST    SHOT   AT. 

Inhuman  man  !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  : 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart ! 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field, 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains : 
No  more  tho  thickening  brakes  and  verdant 
plains, 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted 
rest, 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed ! 
The  sheltering    rushes  whistling  o'er  thy 
head, 
The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest, 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn  thy 
hapless  fate. 


ADDRESS 
TO  THE  SHADE  OF  THOMSON, 

ON  CROWNING  HIS  BUST    AT    EDNAM,  ROXBURGH- 
SHIRE,   WITH    BAYS. 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden's  flood, 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green, 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  mood 
Or  tunes  Eolian  strains  between  •. 

While  Summer  with  a  matron  grace 
Retreats  to  Dryburgh's  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops,  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade  : 

!  While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 
By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head, 

I  And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind, 
Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed : 


70 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Whilo  maniac  Winter  rages  oVr 
The  hills  whence  classic  Yarrow  flows, 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent's  roar, 
Or  sweeping,  wild,  a  waste  of  snows ; 

So  lonrr,  sweet  Poet  of  the  year, 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well  hast  won : 
While  Srotia,  with  exulting  tear, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


EPITAPHS, 


Sfc. 


ON  A  CELEBRATED  RULING  ELDER. 

Here  souter  *  *  *  *  in  death  does  sleep  ; 

To  h-11,  if  he's  gane  thither. 
Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear  to  keep, 

He'll  haud  it  weel  the<nther. 


ON  A  NOISY  POLEMIC. 

Below  thir  stanos  lie  Jamie's  banes : 

O  death,  it's  my  opinion, 
Thou  ne'er  took  such  a  bleth'rin  b-tch 

Into  thy  dark  dominion  1 


ON  WEE  JOHNIE. 

Hie  jacet  wee  Johnie. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  O  reader,  know, 
That  death  has  murder'd  Johnio  ! 

An'  here  his  body  lies  fil'  low 

For  saul  he  ne'er  had  ony 


FOR  THE  AUTHOR'S  FATHER. 

O  ye,  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 

Draw  near  with  pious  rev'rence  and  attend! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains, 

The  tender  father,  and  the  gen'rous  friend. 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  wo  ; 

The  dauntless  heart  that  fcar'd  no  human 
pride : 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe  ; 

"  For  ov'n  his   failings   lcan'd  to  virtue's 
side."* 

*  Goldsmith. 


FOR  R.  A.  Esq. 


Know  thou,  O  stranger  to  the  fame 
Of  this  much  lov'd,  much  honour'd  name; 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  be  told) 
A  warmer  heart  death  ne'er  made  cold 


FOR  G.  H.  Esq 


The  poor  man  weeps — here  G n  sleeps, 

\\  I u  'in  canting  wretches  blam'd: 

But  with  such  as  Ik,  where'er  he  be, 
Way  I  be  sav^d  or  damrid  ! 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 
Owrc  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near ; 
And  owre  tliis  grassy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  tlirong, 

O,  pass  not  by  I 
But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong, 

Here,  heave  a  sigh. 


Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear, 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave  ; 
Here  pause— and,  thro'  the  starting  tear, 
Survey  this  grave. 


This  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow. 

And  softer fldme. 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  staui'd  his  name! 

Reader,  attend— whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious,  self-control. 
Is  wisdom's  root. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


71 


ON  THK  LATE 


CAPT.  GROSE'S  PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH   SCOTLAND 

COLLECTING  THE  ANTIQUITIES  OF  THAT 
KINGDOM. 

Hear,  Land  o'  Cakes,  and  brither  Scots, 
Frae  Maidenkirk  to  Johnie  Groat's ; 
If  there's  a  hole  in  a'  your  coats, 

I  rede  you  tent  it : 
A  chield's  amang  you  taking  notes, 

And,  faith,  he'll  prent  it. 

If  in  your  hounds  ye  chance  to  light 
Upon  a  tine,  fat,  fodgel  wight, 
O'  stature  short,  but  genius  bright, 

That's  he,  mark  weel — 
And  vow  !  he  has  an  unco  slight 

O'  cauk  and  keel. 


By  some  auld,  houlet-haunted  biggin,* 
Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin, 
It's  ten  to  ane  ye'll  find  him  snug  in 

Some  eldritch  part, 
Wi'  deils,  they  say,  L — d  save's  !  collcaguin 
At  some  black  art. — 


Ilk  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha'  or  chamer, 
Ye  gipsy-gang  that  deal  in  glamor, 
And  you  deep  read  in  hell's  black  grammar, 

Warlocks  and  witches ; 
Ye'll  quake  at  liis  conjuring  hammer, 

Ye  midnight  b es. 


It's  tauld  he  was  a  sodger  bred, 
And  ane  wad  rather  fa'n  than  fled  ; 
But  now  he's  quat  the  spurtle  blade, 

And  dog-skin  wallet, 
And  ta'cn  the — Antiquarian  trade, 

I  think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a  fouth  o'  auld  nick-nackets  : 
Rusty  aim  caps  and  jinglin  jackets,! 
Wad  haud  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets, 

A  towmont  guid  ; 
And  parritch-pats,  and  auld  saut-backets, 
Before  the  Flood. 


Of  Eve's  first  fire  he  has  a  cinder  ; 
Auld  Tubal  Cain's  fire-shool  and  fender  ; 
That  which  distinguished  the  gender 

O'  Balaam's  ass ; 
A  broom-stick  o'  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Weel  shod  wi'  brass. 

*  Vido  his  Antiquities  of  Scotland. 

t  Vide   his   Treatise   on   Ancient   Armour   and 
Weapons. 


Forbye,  he'll  snapc  yon  aff,  fu'  gleg, 
The  cut  of  Adam's  philibcg  ; 
The  knife  that  nicket  Abel's  craig 

Hell  prove  you  fully, 
It  was  a  faulding  jocteleg, 

Or  lang-kail  gullie. — 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee, 
For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he, 
Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 

Guid  fellows  wi'  him  ; 
And  port,  O  port !  shine  thou  a  wee, 

And  then  ye'll  see  lum  ! 

Now,  by  the  pow'rs  o'  verse  and  prose  ! 
Thou  art  a  dainty  chield,  O  Grose  ! — 
Whac'er  o'  thee  shall  ill  suppose, 

They  suir  misca'  thee  ; 
I'd  take  the  rascal  by  the  nose, 

Wad  say,  Shamefa'  thee. 


TO  MISS  CRUIKSHANKS, 

A  VERY  YOUNG  LADY. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A  BOOK,  PRE- 
SENTED TO  HER  BY  THE    AUTHOR. 

Beauteous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Blooming  on  thy  early  May, 
Never  may'st  thou,  lovely  flow'r, 
Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  show'r  ! 
Never  Boreas'  hoary  path, 
Never  Eurus'  pois'nous  breath, 
Never  baleful  stellar  lights, 
Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights  ! 
Never,  never  reptile  thief 
Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf! 
Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 
Thy  bosom,  blushing  stUl  with  dew  ! 

May'st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem, 
Richly  deck  thy  native  stem  ; 
Till  some  ev'ning,  sober,  calm, 
Dropping  dews,  and  breathing  balm, 
While  all  around  the  woodland  rings, 
And  ev'ry  bird  thy  requiem  sings ; 
Thou,  amid  the  dirgeful  sound, 
Shed  thy  dying  honours  round, 
And  resign  to  parent  earth 
The  loveliest  form  she  e'er  gave  birth. 


SONG. 


Anna,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire, 
And  waste  my  soul  with  care ; 


72 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


But  ah  !  how  bootless  to  admire, 
When  fated  to  despair  ! 

Yet  hi  thy  presence,  lovely  Fair, 
To  hope  may  be  forgiv  n  ; 

For  sure  'twere  impious  to  despair, 
So  much  in  sight  of  Heav'n. 


ON  READING,  IN  A  NEWSPAPER, 

THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  M'LEOD,  Esa. 

BROTHER  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  A  PARTICULAR 
FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S. 

Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page, 

And  rueful  thy  alarms  : 
Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love 

From  Isabella's  arms. 

Sweetly  deckt  with  pearly  dew 

The  morning  rose  may  blow  ; 
But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 

May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella's  morn 

The  sun  propitious  smil'd  ; 
But,  long  ere  noon,  succeeding  clouds 

Succeeding  hopes  beguil'd. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 

That  nature  finest  strung  : 
So  Isabella's  heart  was  form'd, 

And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

Dread  Omnipotence,  alone, 

Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave  ; 
Can  point  the  brimful  grief-worn  eyes 

To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtue's  blossoms  there  shall  blow 

And  fear  no  withering  blast ; 
There  Isabella's  spotless  worth 

Shall  happy  bo  at  last. 


HUMBLE  PETITION 


BRUAR  WATER* 

TO 
TFIK  NOBLE  DUKE  OP  ATHOLE. 

My  Lord,  I  know,  your  noblo  ear 
Wo  ne'er  assails  in  vain  ; 

*Rrnar  Falls  in  Atholc  are  exceedingly  picturesque 
anrl  beautiful ;  but  their  effect  is  much  impaired  by  the 
ivaiit  of  trees  and  shrubs. 


Embolden'd  thus,  I  beg  you'll  hear 
Your  humble  Slave  complain, 

How  saucy  Phoebus'  scorching  beams, 
In  flaming  summer-pride, 

Dry-withering,  waste  my  foamy  streams, 
And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

The  lightly-jumping  glowrin  trouts, 

That  tliro'  my  waters  play, 
If.  in  their  random,  wanton  spouts, 

They  near  the  margin  stray  ; 
If.  hapless  chance  !  they  linger  lang, 

I'm  Bcorehing  up  to  shallow, 
They're  left  the  whitening  stanes  amang, 

In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 


Last  day  I  grat  wi'  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  B****  came  by, 
That  to  a  Bard  I  should  be  seen 

Wi'  half  my  channel  dry  : 
A  panegyric  rhyme,  1  ween, 

Even  as  I  was  he  shor'd  me  ; 
But  had  I  in  my  glory  been, 

He,  kneeling,  wad  ador'd  me. 


Here,  foaming  down  the  shelvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I  rin  ; 
There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes, 

Wild-roaring  o'er  a  linn  : 
Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well 

As  nature  gave  them  me, 
I  am,  altho'  I  say't  mysel, 

Worth  gaun  a  mile  to  see. 


Would  then  my  noble  master  pleaso 

To  grant  my  highest  wishes, 
He'll  shade  my  hanks  wi'  tow'ring  trees, 

And  bonnie  spreading  bushes; 
Delighted  doubly  then,  my  Lord, 

You'll  wander  on  my  banks, 
And  listen  mony  a  grateful  bird 

Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 


The  sober  laverock,  warbling  wild, 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire  ; 
The  gowdspink,  music's  gayest  child, 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir : 

The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintwhite  clear, 

The  mavis  mild  and  mellow; 
The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer, 
In  all  her  locks  of  yellow  : 


This  too,  a  covert  shall  ensure,. 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm; 
And  coward  maukin  sleep  secure, 

Low  in  her  grassy  form  : 
1  [ere  shall  the  shepherd  make  his  seat 

To  weave  his  crown  of  flow'rs  ; 
Or  find  a  sheltering  safe  retreat, 

From  prone  descending  show'rs. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


73 


And  here,  by  sweet  endearing  stealth, 

Shall  meet  the  loving  pair, 
Despising  worlds  with  all  their  wealth 

As  empty,  idle  care  : 
The  tlow'rs  shall  vie  in  all  their  charms 

The  hour  of  hcav'n  to  grace, 
And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms, 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 

Here,  haply  too,  at  vernal  dawn, 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray, 
And  eye  the  smoking,  dewy  lawn, 

And  misty  mountain,  gray  ; 
Or,  by  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 

Mild-chequering  thro'  the  trees, 
Rave  to  my  darkly  dashing  stream, 

Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool, 

My  lowly  banks  o'erspread, 
And  view,  deep- pending  in  the  pool, 

Their  shadows'  wat'ry  bed  ! 
Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest. 

My  cra<rgy  cliffs  adorn  ; 
And,  for  the  little  songster's  nest, 

The  close  embow'ring  thorn. 

So  may,  old  Scotia's  darling  hope, 

Your  little  angel  band, 
Spring,  like  their  fathers,  up  to  prop 

Their  honour'd  native  land  1 
So  may  thro'  Albion's  farthest  ken, 

The  social  flowing  glasses, 
To  grace  be — "  Athole's  honest  men. 

And  Athole's  bonnie  lasses  1" 


ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER  FOWL 
IN  LOCH-TURIT. 

A  WILD  SCENE  AMONG  THE  HILLS  OF 
OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the  lake, 
For  me  your  wat'ry  haunt  forsake  ? 
Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 
Why  disturb  your  social  joys, 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  tics  ? — 
Common  friend  to  you  and  me, 
Nature's  gifts  to  all  are  free  : 
I'eaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave  ; 
Or  beneath  the  sheltering  rock, 
Bide  the  surging  billow's  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace. 
F2 


Man,  your  proud  usurping  foe, 
Would  be  lord  of  all  below: 
Plumes  himself  in  Freedom's  pride, 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow, 
Marking  you  his  prey  below, 
In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells, 
Strong  necessity  compels. 
But,  man,  to  whom  alone  is  giv'n 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  Heav'n, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane — 
And  creatures  for  his  pleasure  slain. 

In  these  savage,  liquid  plains, 
Only  known  to  wand'ring  swains, 
Where  the  mossy  riv'let  strays, 
Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways ; 
All  on  Nature  you  depend, 
And  life's  poor  season  peaceful  spend. 

Or,  if  man's  superior  might, 
Dare  invade  your  native  right, 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 
Man  with  all  his  pow'rs  you  scorn ; 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings, 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs  ; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave, 
Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


WRITTEN    WITH    A   PENCII. 

OVER  THE  CHIMNEY-PIECE, 

IN  THE  rARLOUR  OF  THE  INN  AT   KENMORE, 
TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 
These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I  trace ; 
O'er  many  a  winding  dale  and  painful  steep, 
Th'  abodes  of  covey'd  grouse  and  timid  sheep, 
My  savage  journey,  curious,  I  pursue,  # 
Till  fam'd  Breadalbane  opens  to  my  view. 
The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 
The  woods,  wild  scatter'd,  clothe  their  ample 

sides ; 
Th'  outstretching  lake,  embosoni'd  'mong  the 

hills, 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills ; 
The  Tay  meand'ring  sweet  in  infant  pride, 
The  palace  rising  on  his  verdant  side  ; 
The  lawns  wood-fring'd  in  Nature's   native 

taste ; 
The  hillocks  dropt  in  Nature's  careless  haste  ; 
The  arches  striding  o'er  the  new-born  stream ; 
The  village,  glittering  in  the  moontide  beam- 


Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell, 

Lone  wand'ring  by  the  hermit's  mossy  cell ; 


74 


TURNS'  POEMS. 


The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods; 
Th'    incessant    roar    of    headlong    tumbling 
floods — 


Here  poesy  might   wake   her   heav'n-taught 

lyre. 
And  look  through  nature  with  creative  fire ; 
J  [ere,  to  the  wrongs  of  fate  half  reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's    lightcn'd    steps    might    wander 

wild ; 
And  Disappointment,  in  these  lonely  bounds, 
Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter  rankling  wounds; 
Here  heart-struck  Grief  might  heav'n-ward 

stretch  her  scan, 
And  injur'd  Worth  forget  and  pardon  man. 


WRITTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL, 

STANDING   BY   THE  FALL  OF  FYERS,  NEAR 

LOCII-NESS. 

Among  llie  heathy  hills  and  ragged  woods 
The  roaring  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods  ; 
Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds, 
Where,  through  a  shapeless  breach,  liis  stream 

resounds. 
As  high  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 
As  deep  recoiling  surges  foam  below, 
Prone  down  the  rock  the  whitening  sheet  de- 
scends, 
And  viewless  echo's  ear,  astonislfd,  rends, 
Dim-seen,  through  rising  mists  and  ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The  hoary  cavern,  wide-surrounding  low'rs. 
Still  thro'  the  f^ap  the  struggling  river  toils, 
And  still  below  the  horrid  caldron  boils — 


ON  THE  BIRTH 

OF  A 

POSTHUMOUS  CHILD, 

BORN  IN  PECULIAR  CIRCUMSTANCES   OF 
FAMILY  DISTRESS. 

Sweet  Flow'rot,  pledge  o"1  meiklo  love, 

And  ward  o1  mony  a  pray'r, 
What  heart  o'  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair ! 

November  hirples  o'er  the  lea, 

( 'hill,  on  thy  lovely  form  ; 
And  gone,  alas  !  the  shelt'ring  tree. 

Should  sliield  thee  frae  the  storm. 


May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour, 
And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 

Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  show'r, 
The  bitter  frost  and  gnaw  '. 

May  He,  the  friend  of  wo  and  want, 
Who  heals  life's  various  stounds, 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother  plant, 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds  I 

But  late  slio  flourish'd,  rooted  fast, 
Fair  on  the  summer  morn: 

Now  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 
Unsheltered  and  forlorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 
Unscath'd  by  ruffian  hand  ! 

And  from  thee  many  a  parent  stem 
Arise  to  deck  our  land  I 


THE  WHISTLE, 

A  BALLAD. 


As  tlie  authentic  prose  history  of  the  Whistle  is  curi- 
ous, I  shall  here  give  it.— In  the  train  of  Anne  of  Den- 
mark, when  she  tame  to  Scotland,  with  our  James  the 
Sixth,  there  came  over  also  a  Danish  gentleman  of  gi- 
gantic stature  and  great  prowess,  and  a  matchless  cham- 
pion of  Bacchus.  lie  had  a  little  ebony  Whistle,  which 
at  the  commencement  of  the  orgies  he  laid  on  the  ta- 
ble, and  whoever  was  last  able  to  blow  it,  every  body 
else  being  disabled  by  the  potency  of  the  bottle,  was  to 
carry  oil"  the  Wbistle  as  a  trophy  of  victory.  TheDane 
produced  credentials  of  his  victories,  without  a  single 
defeat,  at  the  courts  of  Copenhagen,  Stockholm,  Mos- 
cow, Warsaw,  and  several  of  the  petty  courts  in  Ger- 
many ;  and  challenged  the  Scots  Bacchanalians  to  the 
alternative  of  trying  his  prowess,  or  else  of  acknowledg- 
ing their  inferiority. — After  many  overthrows  on  the 
part  of  the  Scots,  the  Dane  was  encountered  by  Sir  Ro- 
bert Lawricof  Maxwelton,  ancestor  of  the  present' wor- 
thy baronet  of  that  name;  who,  after  three  days'  and 
three  nights'  hard  contest,  left  the  Scandinavian  under 
the  table, 

And  blew  on  the  Whistle  his  rrquium  shrill. 

Sir  Walter,  son  to  Sir  Robert  before  mentioned,  nfter- 
wards  lost  the  Whistle  to  Walter  Riddel  of  Glenrid- 
del,  who  had  married  a  sister  of  Sir  Walter's. — On 
Friday  the  lGth  of  October,  1790,  at  Friars-Carse,  the 
Whistle  was  once  more  contended  for,  as  related  in  the 
ballad,  by  the  present  Sir  Robert  Lawrle  of  Maxwel- 
ton ;  Robert  Riddel,  Esq.  of  Gleririddel,  lineal  descend- 
ant and  representative  of  Walter  Kind.  1,  who  won  the 
Whistle,  and  in  whose  family  it  had  continued  ;  and 
Alexander  Fergusson,  Esq.  of  Craigdarroch,  likewise 
descended  of  the  great  Sir  Robert ;  which  last  gentle- 
man carried  oil' the  hard- won  honours  of  the  Geld. 


I  sing  of  a  Whistle,  a  Whistle  of  worth, 
I  sing  of  a  Wliistlo,  the  prido  of  the  North, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


75 


Was  brought  to  tho  court  of  our  good  Scottish 

tang, 
And  long  with  this  Whistle  all  Scotland  shall 

ring. 

Old  Loda,*  still  rueing  the  arm  of  Fingal, 
The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  Ins  hall — 
"This  Whistle's  your  challenge  to  Scotland 

get  o'er, 
And  drink  them  to  hell,  Sir !  or  ne'er  see  mo 

more  1" 


Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles  tell, 
What  champions  ventur'd,  what  champions  fell; 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still, 
Aid  blew  on  the  whistle  his  requium  shrill. 

Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the 
Scaur, 
Unmatch'd  at  the  bottle,  unconqucr'd  in  war, 
He  drank  bis  poor  god-ship  as  deep  as  the  sea, 
No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e'er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus   Robert,    victorious,    the   trophy   has 

gain'd ; 
Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages  remain'd  ; 
Till    tlu-ee    noble    chieftains    and   all   of  his 

blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew'd. 

Three  joyous  good  fellows  with  hearts  clear 
of  flaw ; 
Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth  and 

law; 
And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill'd  in  old  coins  ; 
And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep  read  in  old  wines. 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a  tongue  smooth 

as  oil, 
Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 
Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the  clan, 
And   once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was  the 

man. 

"  By  the  gods  of  the  ancients  I"  Glenriddel 

replies, 
Before  T  surrender  so  glorious  a  prize, 
I'll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rorie  More,t 
And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty  times 

o'er." 

Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  no  speech  would  pre- 
tend, 

But  he  ne'er  turn'd  his  back  on  his  foe — or  his 
friend, 

Said,  toss  down  the  Whistle,  the  prize  of  the 
field, 

And  knee-deep  in  claret,  he'd  die  or  he'd  yield. 


♦See  Ossian's  Carrie  thiira 
t  See  Johnson's  Tour  to  the  Hebrides. 


To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair, 
So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care  ; 
Rut  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more  known 

to  fame, 
Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste,  of  a  sweet, 

lovely  dame. 

A  bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray, 
And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day  ; 
A  bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen, 
And  wisli'd  that  Parnassus  a  vineyard  had 
been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply, 
And  every  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  of  joy  ; 
In  the  bands  of  old  friendsliip  and  kindred  so 

set, 
And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they 
were  wet. 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o'er ; 
Bright  Phoebus  ne'er  witness'd  so  joyous  acore, 
And  vow'd  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite 

forlorn, 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he'd  see  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  a-piece  had  well  wore  out  tho 

night, 
When  gallant  Sir  Robert  to  finish  the  fight, 
Turn'd  o'er  in  one  bumper  a  bottle  of  red, 
And  swore  'twas  the  way  that  their  ancestors 

did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and 
sajre, 
No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would  wage 
A  high  ruling  Elder  to  wallow  in  wine ! 
He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the 
end ; 

But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart  bumpers  con- 
tend? 

Though  fate  said — a  hero  should  perish  in 
light ; 

So  uprose  bright  Phcobus — and  down  fell  tho 
knight. 

Next  uprose  our  bard,  like   a  prophet  in 
drink : — 
"  Craigdarroch,    thou'lt  soar    when    creation 

shall  sink  ! 
But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme, 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the  sub- 
lime ! 

"  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  Freedom 

with  Bruce, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce : 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay ; 
Tho  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of 

day !" 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES  OF  POETRY, 


EXTRACTED 


FROM  THE  CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS ; 


COMPOSED    FOR   THE    MUSICAL    PUBLICATIONS    OF    MESSRS.   THOMSON    AND   JOHNSON; 


WITH  ADDITIONAL  PIECES. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 
A  BROTHER  POET* 


AULD    NF.EBOR 

I'm  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor, 
For  your  auld-farrant,  frien'ly  letter ; 
Tho'  I  maun  say't,  I  doubt  ye  flatter, 

Ye  speak  sae  fair ; 
For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymin'  clatter, 

Some  less  maun  sair. 

Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle ; 
Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  an1  diddle, 
To  cheer  you  thro'  the  weary  widdlc 

O'  war'ly  cares, 
Till  bairns'  bairns  kindly  cuddle 

Your  auld,  gray  hairs. 


But,  Davie,  lad,  I'm  red  ye're  glaikit ; 
I'm  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hac  negleckit ; 
An1  gif  it's  sae,  ye  sud  be  ticket 

Until  ye  fyke ; 
Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faikit, 

Be  hain't  wha  lilie. 


For  me,  I'm  on  Parnassus'  brink, 

Rivin  the  words  to  gar  them  clink; 

Whyles  dais't.  wi'  love,  whyles  dais't  wi'  drink, 

Wi'  jads  or  masons  ; 
An'  whyles,  but  ay  owre  late,  1  think 

Braw  sober  lessons. 

*  This  in  prefixed  to  the  poems  of  David  Sillar,  pub- 
lished at  Kilmarnock,  1789. 


Of  a'  the  thoughtless  sons  o'  man, 
Commen' me  to  the  Bardic  clan; 
Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

O'  rhymin'  clink, 
The  devil-haet,  that  I  sud  ban, 

They  ever  think. 

Nac  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o'  livin', 
Nae  cares  to  gio  us  joy  or  grievin' : 
But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nieve  in, 

An'  while  ought's  there, 
Then,  hiltie,  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin', 

An'  fash  nae  mair. 

Leeze  me  on  rhyme !  it's  aye  a  treasure, 
My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure, 
At  hame,  a-fiel',  at  wark  or  leisure, 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie! 
Tho'  rough  an'  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She's  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie ; 
The  w  arl'  may  play  you  monie  a  shavio; 
But  for  the  Muse,  she'll  never  leave  ye, 

Tho'  e'er  sae  puir, 
Na,  even  tho'  limpin  wi'  the  spavie 

Frae  door  to  door 


THE  LASS  O'  BALLOCHMYLE. 

'Twas  even — the  dewy  fields  were  green, 
On  ev'ry  blade  the  pearls  hang; 

The  Zephyr  wantoned  round  the  bean, 
And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang : 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


77 


In  every  glen  the  mavis  sang, 

All  nature  listening  seemed  the  while, 
Except  where  green-wood  echoes  rang, 

Amang  the  braes  o'  Ballochmyle. 


With  careless  step  I  onward  strayed, 

M  v  heart  rejoiced  in  nature's  joy, 
When  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 

A  maiden  fair  I  chanced  to  spy  ; 
Her  look  was  like  the  morning's  eye, 

Her  air  like  nature's  vernal  smile, 
Perfection  whispered  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  o'  Balloclnnyle  I 


Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  is  Autumn  mild ; 
When  roving  thro'  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wandering  in  the  lonely  wild  : 
But  woman,  nature's  darling  child  1 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile  ; 
Even  there  her  other  works  are  foil'd 

By  the  bonny  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 


O,  had  she  been  a  country  maid. 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 
Tho'  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  rose  in  Scotland's  plain  ! 
Thro'  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil ; 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 

The  bonny  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 


Then  pride  might  climb  the  slipp'ry  steep, 

Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine ; 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 

Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine ; 
Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks  or  till  the  soil, 
And  every  day  have  joys  divine, 

With  the  bomiy  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 


Eternity  will  not  efface, 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past;  * 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ; 

Ah !  little  thought  wc  'twas  our  last'. 
Ayr  gurgling  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung     with    wild    woods,    tluck'ning, 
green ; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twin  d  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west, 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 
Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ! 
Tune  but  the  impression  deeper  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear 
My  Mary  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  blissful  place  of  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hcar'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 


Tnou  lingering  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 

Tbat  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Whore  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast ! 
That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love ! 


LINES  ON 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  LORD  DAER. 


This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 
A  ne'er  to  be  forgotten  day, 
Sae  far  I  sprackled  up  the  brae, 

I  dinner'd  wi'  a  Lord. 


I've  been  at  druken  writers'  feasts, 
Nay,  been  bitch-fou  'mang  godly  priests, 

Wi'  rev'rence  be  it  spoken  ; 
I've  even  join'd  the  honour'd  jorum, 
When  mighty  Squireships  of  the  quorum, 

Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 


But  wi'  a  Lord — stand  out  my  shin, 
A  Lord — a  Peer — an  Earl's  son, 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ; 
An'  sic  a  Lord — lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
Our  Peerage  he  o'erlooks  them  a', 

As  I  look  o'er  my  sonnet. 


But  oh  for  Hogarth's  magic  pow'r . 
To  show  Sir  Bardy's  willyart  glowr, 

And  how  he  star'd  and  stammei'd, 
When  goavan,  as  if  led  wi'  branks, 
An'  stumpan'  on  his  ploughman  shanks. 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer'd. 


78 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


I  sidlinrr  sholtor'd  in  a  nook, 
An'  at  his  Lordship  steaFt  a  look 

Like  some  portentous  omen ; 
Except  good-sense  and  social  glee, 
An'  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

1  marked  nought  uncommon. 


I  watch' d  the  symptoms  o'  the  Great, 
The  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  stale, 
The  arrogant  assuming ; 

The  feint  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he, 
Nor  sauce,  nor  state  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 


Then  from  his  Lordship  I  shall  learn, 
Henceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 

One  rank  as  well's  another  ; 
Nae  honest  worthy  man  need  care, 
To  meet  with  noble,  youthful  Daer, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 


ON  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

Residing  on  the  banks  of  the  small  river  Devon,  in 
Clackmannanshire,  but  whoes  infant  years  were 
spent  in  Ayrshire 


How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-wTinding 
Devon, 
With  green-spreading  bushes,  and  flowers 
blooming  fair; 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the 
Devon, 
Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the 
Ayr. 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flowrcr, 
In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew  ! 

And  g  ill  of  the  soft  vernal  shower, 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  re- 
new. 


O,  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 

With  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn ! 
And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that 
seizes 
The  verdure  and  prido  of  the  gardon  and 
lawn  1 


Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies, 
And  England   triumphant  display  her  proud 

A  fairer  thin  either  adorns  the  green  valleys 
Where   Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering 


CASTLE  GORDON. 


Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 
Never  bound  by  winter's  chains ; 
Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There  commiz'd  with  foulest  stains 
From  tyranny's  empurpled  bands : 
These,  their  richly-gleaming  waves, 
Heave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves ; 
Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks,  by  Castle  Gordon. 
i 

II. 


Spicy  forests,  ever  gay, 
Shading  from  the  burning  ray 
1  [apless  wretches  sold  to  toil, 
Or  the  ruthless  native's  way, 
Bent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil: 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 
I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave, 
(Jive  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 
The  storms,  by  Castle  Gordon. 

in. 

Wildly  here  without  control, 
Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole ; 
In  that  sober  pensive  mood, 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 
She  plants  the  forest,  pours  the  flood; 
J /lie's  poor  day  I'll  musing  rave, 
And  find  at  night  a  sheltering  cave, 
Where  waters  flow  and  wild  woods  wave, 
By  boimic  Castle  Gordon.* 


NAE-BODY. 


I  hae  a  wife  o'  my  ain, 
I'll  partake  wi'  nae-body ; 

I'll  talc  cuckold  frae  nane, 
I'll  gie  cuckold  to  nac-body. 

I  hae  apenny  to  spend, 

There — thanks  to  nae-body; 
I  hae  naething  to  lend, 

I'll  borrow  frae  nae-body. 

I  am  nae-body's  lord, 
I'll  be  slave  to  nae-body; 

I  hae  a  guid  braid  sword, 
Fll  tak  dunts  frae  nae-body. 


*  Those  verses  our  Poet  composed  to  be  sung  to  Mo- 
rag,  a  Highland  air,  of  which  he  was  extremely  fond. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


79 


I'll  bo  merry  and  free, 
I'll  be  sad  for  nae-body  ; 

If  nae-body  care  for  mo, 
I'll  care  for  nae-body. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LAP-DOG, 
NAMED  ECHO. 


In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng, 

Your  heavy  loss  deplore  ; 
Now  half-extinct  your  powers  of  song, 

Sweet  Echo  is  no  more. 

Ye  jarring  screeching  things  around, 
Scream  your  discordant  joys  ; 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  sound 
With  Echo  silent  lies. 


SONG.* 


Tune — "  I  am  a  man  unmarried." 

O,  once  I  lov'd  a  bonnie  lass, 

Ay,  and  I  love  her  still, 
And  whilst  that  virtue  warms  my  breast 

I'll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  Sec. 

As  bonnie  lasses  I  hae  seen, 

And  mony  full  as  braw, 
But  for  a  modest  gracefu'  mien 

The  like  I  never  saw. 

A  bonnie  lass,  T  will  confess, 

Is  pleasant  to  the  e'e, 
But  without  some  better  qualities 

She's  no  a  lass  for  me. 

But  Nelly's  looks  are  blithe  and  sweet, 

And  what  is  best  of  a', 
Her  reputation  is  complete, 

And  fair  without  a  flaw. 

She  dresses  ay  sac  clean  and  neat, 

Both  decent  and  genteel ; 
And  then  there's  something  in  her  gait 

Gars  ony  dress  look  wcel. 

A  gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  toucli  the  heart, 

But  it's  innocence  and  modesty 
That  polishes  the  dart. 

*This  was  our  Poet's  first  attempt. 


'Tis  this  in  Nelly  pleases  mc, 
'Tis  this  enchants  my  soul ; 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 
She  reiyns  without  control. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  Sec. 


INSCRIPTION 
TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  FERGUSSON. 

HERE  LIES  ROBERT  FERGUSSON,  POET. 
Born  September  5th,  1751 — Died,  16th  October,  1774. 

No  sculptur'd  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay 
"  No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust," 

This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  poet's  dust. 


THE  CHEVALIER'S  LAMENT. 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  re- 
turning, 
The  murmuring  streamlet  winds  clear  thro' 
the  vale ; 
The  hawthorn  trees  blow  in  the  dews  of  the 
morning, 
And  wild  scatter'd  cowslips  bedeck  the  green 
dale : 

But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem 

fair, 
Wliile  the  lingering  moments  are  number'd  by 

care  ?  [singing, 

No  flowers  gaily  springing,  nor  birds  sweetly 
Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 

The  deed  that  I  dar'd  could  it  merit  their  malice, 

A  king  and  a  father  to  place  on  his  throne  ? 

His  right  are   these   hills,  and  his  right  aro 

these  valleys, 

Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but  I  can 

find  none. 

But  'tis  not  my  sufferings  thus  wretched,  for- 
lorn, 

My  brave  gallant  friends,   'tis  your    ruin    I 

mourn :  [trial, 

Your  deeds  prov'd  so  loyal  in  hot  bloody 

Alas  !  can  I  make  you  no  sweeter  return  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  R.  GRAHAM,  Esq. 

When  Nature  her  great  master-piece  design 'd. 
And  fram'd  her  last  best  work  the   human 
mind, 


80 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Har  eve  intent  on  all  the  mazy  plan, 

She  form'd  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 


Then  first  she  rails  the  useful  many  forth  ; 
Plain  plodding  industry  and  sober  worth  : 
Thence  peasants,  farmers,  native  sons  of  earth, 
And    merchandise'    whole    genus    take    their 

birth: 
Each  prudent  cit  a  warm  existence  finds, 
And  all  mechanics'  many  apron'd  kinds. 
Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet, 
The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the  nel  ; 
The  eapvt  mortinnn  of  gross  desires 
Makes    a    material    for    mere    knights    and 

squires  ; 
The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to  flow, 
She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic  dough, 
Then  marks  th'  unyielding  mass  with  grave 

designs, 
Law,  physics,  politics,  and  deep  divines  : 
Last,  she  sublimes  th'  Aurora  of  the  poles, 
The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 


The  order'd  system  fair  before  her  stood, 
Nature,  well-pleas'd,  pronounced  it  very  good  ; 
But  o'er  she  gave  creating  labour  o'er, 
Half  jest,  she  try'd  one  curious  labour  more. 
Some  spumy,  fiery,  isnisfaluus  matter  ; 
Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might  scat- 
ter ; 
With  arch-alacrity  and  conscious  glee 
(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as  we, 
Her  Hogarth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to  show  it) 
She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it — a  poet. 
Creature,  tho'  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day  unmindful  of  to-morrow. 
A  being  form'd  t1  amuse  his  graver  friends, 
Admir'd  and  prais'd — and  there  the  homage 

ends : 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  Fortune's  strife. 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life  ; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live: 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 


But  honest  nature  is  not  quite  a  Turk, 
She    laugh'd    at  first,  then  felt  for  her  poor 

work. 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind, 
She  cast  about  a  standard  tree  to  find  ; 
And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 
Attach 'd  him  to  the  generous  truly  great, 
A  title,  and  the  only  one  I  claim, 
To  lay  strong  hold    for  help    on   bounteous 
Graham. 


Pity  the  tuneful  muses'  hapless  train, 
Weak,  timid  landmen  on  life  s  stormy  main  ! 
Their  hearts  no  selfish  stern  ab  orbenl  stuff, 
'l  hat  never  gives — tho1  humb  'Ugh; 


The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon, 
Unlike  sage,  proverb'd  Wisdom's  hard-wrung 

boon. 
The  world  were  blest  did  bless  on  them  de- 
pend, 
Ah,  that   "  the  friendly   e'er   should  want  a 

friend  !" 
Let  prudence  number  o'er  each  sturdy  son, 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 
Who  feel  by  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule, 
[Instinct 's  a  brute,  and  sentiment  a  fool!) 
Who  make  poor  will  do  wait  upon  I  should— 
We  own  they're  prudent,  but  who  feels  they're 

good  ? 
Ye  wise  ones,  hence  !  ye  hurt  the  social  eye! 
God's  image  rudely  etch'd  on  base  alloy  ! 
But  come  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know, 
Heaven's  attribute  distinguish^! — to  bestow! 
Whose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  the  human 

race: 
Come  thou  who   giv'st  with  all  a  courtier's 

grace ; 
Friend  of  mij  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes ! 
Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times. 
Why    shrinks   my  soul   half  blushing,  half 

afraid, 
Backward,  abash'd  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid? 
I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving  hand, 
I  crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command  ; 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful 

nine — 
Heavens  !    should  the  branded  character  be 

mine ! 
Whose  verse    in  manhood's  pride  sublimely 

flows, 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 
.Mark,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit 
Soars  on  the  spurning  wing  of  injur'd  merit ! 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to  find  : 
Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but  wind  ! 
So,  to  heaven's    gates   the  lark's  shrill  song 

ascends, 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 
In  all  the  clam'rous  cry  of  starving  want. 
They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front; 
Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  lays, 
They  persecute  you  all  your  future  days ! 
Ere  my  poor  soul  such  deep  damnation  stain, 
My  lenny  fist  assumes  the  plough  again; 
The  piebald  jacket  let  me  patch  once  more  ; 
( )n  eighteen-pence  a  week,  I've  liv'd  before. 
Though,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I  dare  even  that 

last  shift, 
1  trust  meantime  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift : 
That  plac'd  by  thee  upon  the  wish  d-for  height, 
Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  her  sight. 
My  muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some  sublim- 

er  flight.* 


*  This  is  our  Poet's  first  epistle  to  Graham  of  Fin- 
try.     It  is  not  equal  to  the  second  ;   but  it  conltiins  too 
much  of  the  characteristic  vigour  of  its  author  to  be  sup- 
i     A  little  more  knowledge  of  natural  history, 
hemistry,  was  wanted  to  enable  him  to  execute 
the  original  conception  correctly- 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


81 


FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED   TO    TIIE    RIGHT  HON.  C.    J.    FOX. 


How  wisdom  and  folly  meet,  mix,  and  unite ; 

How  virtue  and  vice  blend  their  black  and  their 
white ; 

How  genius,  the  illustrious  father  of  fiction, 

Confounds  rulo  and  law,  reconciles  contra- 
diction— 

I  sing :  l£  tlieso  mortals,  tho  critics,  should 
bustle, 

I  care  not,  not  I,  let  the  critics  go  whistle. 


But  now  for  a  Patron,  whose  name  and 
whose  glory 
At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 


Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits ; 
Vet  whose  parts  and  acquirements  seem  mere 

lucky  hits ; 
With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so 

strong, 
No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went  far 

wrong; 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright, 
No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went  quite 

right ; 
A  sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  Muses, 
For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  L — d,  what  is  man !  for  as  simple  he 

looks, 
Do    but  try    to  develop  his  hooks  and  his 

crooks ; 
With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his  good  and 

his  evil, 
All  in  all  he's  a  problem  must  puzzle  the  devil. 


On  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope  hugely 

labours, 
That,  like  th'  old  Hebrew  walking-switch,  eats 

up  its  neighbours : 
Mankind   are   his  show-box — a  friend,  would 

you  know  him? 
Pull  the  string,  ruling  passion  the  picture  will 

show  him. 
What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a  system, 
One   trifling    particular,    truth,  should  have 

miss'd  liim ; 
For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions, 
Mankind  is  a  science  defies  definitions. 


Some  sort  all  our  qualities  each  to  its  tribe, 
And  think  human  nature  they  truly  describe ; 
Have  you  found  this,  or  t'other?  there's  more 

in  the  wind, 
As  by  one  drunken  fellow  liis  comrades  you'll 
find. 

G 


But  such  is  tho  flaw,  or  the  depth  of  tho  plan, 
In  the  make  of  that  wonderful  creature,  call'd 

Man, 
No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim, 
Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the  same, 
Though  liko  as  was  ever  twin  brother  to  bro- 
ther, 
Possessing    the   one  shall  imply  you've  the 
other. 


TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 


Ellisland,  21st  Oct.  1783. 

Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vaimtie ! 
And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie  ? 
I  kenn'd  it  still  your  wee  bit  jauntie 

Wad  bring  ye  to : 
Lord  send  you  ay  as  weel's  I  want  ye, 

And  then  ye'll  do. 


The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron  south ! 
And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth  I 
He  tald  myself  by  word  o'  mouth, 

He'd  tak  my  letter ; 
I  lippen'd  to  the  chiel  in  trouth, 

And  bade  nae  better. 


But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one, 
To  ware  his  theologic  care  on, 

And  holy  study ; 
And  tir'd  o'  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on, 

E'en  tried  the  body.* 


But  what  d'ye  think,  my  trusty  fier, 
I'm  turn'd  a  gauger — Peace  be  here  ! 
Parnassian  queens,  I  fear,  I  fear 

Ye'll  now  disdain  me, 
And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a  year 

Will  little  train  me. 


Te  glaikit,  gleesome,  daintie  damies, 
Wha  by  Castalia's  wimplin  streamies, 
Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  limbies, 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 
That  Strang  necessity  supreme  is 

'Mang  sons  o'  men. 


I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 

They  maun  hae  brose  and  brats  o'  duddies  ; 


*  Mr.  Heron,  author  of  the  History  of  Scotland,  and 
of  various  other  works. 


82 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud  is, 
I  need  na  vaunt. 

But  I'll  sued  besoms — thraw  saugh  woodies, 
Before  they  want. 


Lord  help  me  thro'  this  warld  o'  care  I 
Tin  weary  sick  o't  late  and  air! 
Not  but  1  hae  a  richer  share 

Than  niony  ithers ; 
But  why  should  ac  man  better  fare, 

And  a'  men  brithers  ? 

Come,  Firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van, 
Thou  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  man  ! 
And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne'er  wan 

A  lady  fair ; 
Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Will  whyles  do  mair. 

But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme, 
(I'm  scant  o'  verse,  and  scant  o'  time ) 
To  make  a  happy  fire-side  clime 

To  weans  and  wife, 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie ; 
And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky, 
I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chuckie, 

As  o'er  tread  clay  1 
And  gratefully,  my  guid  auld  cockie, 

I'm  yours  for  ay. 

Robert  Burns. 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN"   AT    THE    THEATRE    ELLISLAND,    ON 
NEW-YEAR-DAY    EVENING. 

No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great 
city 
That  queens  it  o'er  our  taste — the  more  's  the 

pity  : 
Tho',  by  the  by,  abroad  why  will  you  roam? 
Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  hero  at  home : 
But  not  for  panegyric  I  appear, 

i  all  a  good  new  year  ! 
Fathei  Time  deputes  me  here  before  ye, 
\.,i  for  to  preach,  but  tell  bis  simple  story : 
The  sage  grave  ancient  cough'd,  and  bade  me 

say, 
"  You're  one  year  older  this  important  day, ' 

r  too — -he  hinted  some  - 
But  'twould  be  rude,  you  k  the 

question  ; 
And  with  a  would-be-roguish  leer  and  wink, 
He  bade  me  on  you  press  tliis  one  word — 
"  lliink  1" 


Te  sprightly  youths,  quite  flush  with  hope 

and  spirit, 
Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of  merit, 
To  you  the  dotard  lias  a  deal  to  say, 
In  Ins  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way  '. 
Ho    bids  you    mind,   amid  your  thoughtless 

rattle, 
That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the  battle ; 
That  tho'  some  b}r  the  skirt  may  try  to  snatch 

him ; 
Fel  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him ; 
That  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbearing 
You  may  do  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  tho'  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair, 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven's  peculiar  care  ! 
To  you  old  Bald -pate  smooths  his  wrinkled 

brow, 
And  humbly  begs  you'll  mind  the  important — 

now ! 
To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your  leave,. 
And  offers,  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 


For  our  sincere,  tho'  haply  weak  endeavours, 
With    grateful    pride    we    own    your   many 

favours ; 
And  howsoe'er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it, 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel  it. 


ELEGY 


ON  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET 


OF    MONBODDO. 

Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize, 
As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies  ; 
Nor  envious  death  so  triumph'd  in  a  blow. 
As  that  which  laid  the   accomplish'd  Burnet 
low. 

Thy  form  and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I  forget? 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set  ! 
In  thee,  high  I  leaven  above  was  truest  shown 
As   by  his  noble  work  the  Godhead   best    is 
known. 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer's  pride,  ye  groveB ; 

Thoucrystalstreamletwith  thy  flowery  shore, 
Ye  woodland  choir  thai  chanl  your  idle  loves, 

Ye  cease  to  charm — Eliza  is  no  more ! 

Ye  heathy  wastes,  immix'd  with  reedy  fens  ; 

Ye  i  i  '  '' 

stor'd  ; 
Ye  rugged  <  litis,  o'erhanging  dreary 

To  you  I  fly,  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


83 


Princes,  whoso  cumb'rous  pride  was  all  their 
worth, 

Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail  ? 
And  thou,  sweet  excellence  !  forsake  our  earth, 

And  not  a  muse  in  honest  grief  bewail  ? 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beauty's  pride, 
And  virtue's  light,  that  beams  beyond  the 
spheres  ; 

But  like  the  sun  eclips'd  at  morning  tide, 
Thou  left'st  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears. 

The  parent's  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thoc, 
That  heart  how  sunk,  a  prey  to  grief  and 
care  ! 

So  deckt  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree, 
So  from  it  ravish'd,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


IMITATION 

OF  AN  OLD  JACOBITE  SONG. 

By  yon  castle  wa',  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
I  heard  a  man  sing,  tho'  his  head  it  was  gray  ; 
And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast  down 

came — 
There  '11  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

The  church  is  in  ruins,  the  state  is  in  jars, 
Delusions,  oppressions,  and  murderous  wars  ; 
We  dare  na  weel  say  't,  but  we  ken  wha's  to 

blame — 
There  '11  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

My  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie  drew  sword, 
And  now  I  greet  round  their  green  beds  in  the 

yerd: 
It  brak  the  sweet  heart  o1  my  faithfu'  auld 

dame — 
There  'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

Now  life  is  a  burden  that  bows  me  down, 
Sin'  I  tint,  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his  crown  ; 
But  till  my  last  moment  my  words  are  the 

same — 
There  'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

Scene — a  field  of  battle  ;  time  of  the  day — evening ;  the 
wounded  and  dying  of  the  victorious  army  arc  sup- 
posed to  join  in  the  following  Song. 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth, 
and  ye  skies. 
Now  gay  with  I :  Lngsun! 

Farewell,  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear   ten- 
der tics, 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 


Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  thou  life's  gloomy 
foe, 
Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave  ; 
Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant !   but 
know, 
No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 

Thou  strik'st  the  dull  peasant — he  sinks  in  the 
dark, 

Nor  saves  e'en  the  wreck  of  a  name  ; 
Thou  strik'st  the  young  hero— a  glorious  mark ! 

lie  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame  I 

In  the  field  of  proud  honour — our  swords  in 
our  hands, 

Our  King  and  our  country  to  save — 
While  victory  shines  on  life's  last  ebbing  sands, 

O  who  would  not  rest  with  the  brave  I 


THE  RIGHTS  OP  WOMAN. 

An  Occasional  Address  spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle  on 
her  Bcnrfit-JYight. 

While  Europe's  eye  is  fix'd  on  mighty  things, 
The  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of  kings  ; 
While  quacks  of  state  must  each  produce  his 

plan, 
And  even  children  lisp  the  Rights  of  Man  ; 
Amid  this  mighty  fuss,  just  let  me  mention, 
The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  attention. 

First,  in  the  sexes'  intermix'd  connection, 
One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  protection. — 
The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head,  elate, 
Helpless,  must  fall  before  the  blasts  of  fate, 
Sunk  on  the  earth,  defae'd  its  lovely  form, 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th'  impending  storm. -- 

Our   second   Right — but   needless  here  is 
caution, 
To  keep  that  right  inviolate 's  the  fashion, 
Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him, 
He'd  die  before  he'd  wrong  it — 'tis  decorum. — 
There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polish'd  days, 
A  time,  when  rough  rude  man  had  naughty 

ways  ; 
Would  swagger,  swear,  get  drunk,  kick  up  a 

riot ; 
Nay,  even  thus  invade  a  lady's  quiet — 
Now,  thank  our  stars  !  these  Gothic  times  are 

fled; 
Now,  well-bred  men — and  you  are  all  well- 
bred — 
Most  justly    think    (and   we   are   much   the 

gainers) 
Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  manners. 

For  Right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best,  our 
dearest, 
That  right  to  fluttering    female   hearts   the 
nearest, 


84 


BURNS'  POEMS- 


Which  even  the  Rights  of  Kings  in  low  pros- 
tration 
MobI  humbly  own — 'tis  dear, dear  admiration! 
In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move; 
There  taste  thai  life  of  lift — immortal  love. — 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,   tears,   lits,    flirtations, 

airs, 
'Gainst  such  an  host  what  flinty  savage  dares — 
When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her  charms. 
Who  is  so  rasli  as  rise  in  rebel  arms : 


But  truce  with  kings,  and  truce  with  consti- 
tutions, 
With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions  ; 
Let  majesty  our  first  attention  summon, 
Jih  !  ca  ira  !  the  Majesty  of  Woman  ! 


ADDRESS, 


Spoken  by  Miss  Fontencllc,  on  her  benefit-night,  Decem- 
ber 4,  1795,  at  the  Theatre,  Dumfries. 


Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour, 
And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night,  than 

ever, 
A  Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some  such  matter, 
'Twould  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing  bet- 
ter ; 
So,  sought  a  Poet,  roosted  near  the  skies ; 
Told  him  I  came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes  ; 
Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever  printed ; 
And  last,  my  Prologue-business  slily  hinted. 
"  Ma'am,  let  me  tell  you,"  quoth  my  man  of 

rhymes, 
"  I  know  your  bent — these  are   no   laugliing 

times  : 
Can  you — but  Miss,  I  own  I  have  my  fears, 
Dissolve  in  pause — and  sentimental  tears — 
With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded  sen- 
tence, 
Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers,  fell  Repen- 
tance ; 
Paint  Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  horrid  stand, 
Waving  on  high  the  desolating  brand, 
Calling  Hie  storms  to  bear  him  o'er  a  guilty 
land  ?" 


I  could  no  more — askance  the  creature  eye- 
ing, 

D'ye  think,  said  I,  this  face  was  made  for 
crying  ? 

I'll  laugh,  that's  poz — nay  more,  the  world 
shall  know  it ; 

And  so,  your  servant  1  gloomy  Master  Poet  ! 


Firm  as  my  creed.  Sirs,  'tis  my  fix'd  belief, 
That  .Misery's  another  word  for  Grief: 


1  also  think — so  may  I  be  a  bride  ! 

That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life  enjoy'd. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh, 
Still  under  bleak  Misfortune's  blasting  eye; 
Doom'd  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive — 
To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of  live  : 
Laugh  in  Misfortune's  face — the  beldam  witch! 
j  oull  be  merry,  though  you  can't  be  rich. 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  love, 
Who  long  with  jiltish  arts  and  airs  hast  strove  ; 
Who,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  project, 
Measur'sl  in  desperate  thought — a  rope — thy 

neck — 
Or,  where  the   beetling   cliff   o'erhangs   the 

deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap  ; 
Wouldst  thou  be  cur'd,  thou  silly,  moping  elf, 
Laugh  at  her  follies — laugh  e'en  at.  thyself: 
Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now  so  terrific, 
And  love  a  kinder — that's  your  grand  specific 

To  sum  up  all,  bo  merry,  I  advise  ; 
And  as  we're  merry,  may  we  still  bo  wise. 


SONGS. 


THE    LEA-RIG. 


When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star, 

'fells  bughtin-time  is  near,  my  jo  ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow'd  field, 

Return  sae  dowf  and  weary,  () ; 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks, 

Wi'  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 
I'll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 
I'd  rove  and  ne'er  be  eerie,  O, 

If  thro' that  glen,  I  gaed  to  thee, 
Mv  aiu  kind  dearie,  <  >. 

Altho'  the  nighl  were  ne'er  sae  wild, 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  wearie,0, 

I'd  meet  theo  on  the  lea-rig, 
My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

The  hunter  lo'es  the  morning  sun, 
To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo, 

At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen, 
Along  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo ; 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


85 


Gio  mo  tlie  hour  o'  gloamin  gray, 
Itmaksiny  heart  sae  cheery,  O, 

To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig', 
My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 


TO  MARY. 
Tune — "  Ewe-bughts,  Marion." 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Tndies,  my  Mary, 
And  leave  anld  Scotia's  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies  my  Mary, 
Across  th'  Atlantic's  roar  ? 

0  sweet  grows  the  lime  and  the  orange. 
And  the  apple  on  the  pine  ; 

But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  Indies, 
Can  never  equal  thine. 

1  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  true ; 
And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me, 
When  I  forget  my  vow  ! 

O  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand ; 

O  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join, 
And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us '. 

The  hour,  and  the  moment  o'  time  !* 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  tiling, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer, 

And  niest  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't ; 
Wi'  her  I'll  blithly  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 

•This  Song  Mr.  Thomson  has  not  adopted  in  his 
collection.    It  deserves,  however,  to  be  preserved.    E. 


BONNIE  LESLEY. 


O  saw  yc  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  ? 

She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 
And  say,  "  I  camia  wrang  thee." 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 

Misfortune  sha'na  steer  thee  ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie ! 
That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 


HIGHLAND  MARY 


Tune — "  Catharine  Ogie." 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around, 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk. 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom ; 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender  ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 


86 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


But  Oil !  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 
That  nipt  my  flower  Bfce  earlj  1 

Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

1  ail  hac  kiss'd  sac  fondly  ! 
And  closed  tor  ay,  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sac  kindly  '. 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dost, 

Thai  heart  that  lo'cd  me  dearly! 
Bui  still  within  my  bosom's  core, 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 

There's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon 

glen, 
He's  the  king  o'  guid  fellows  and  wale  of  auld 

men; 
He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and 

kine, 
And  ae  bomiie  lassie,  liis  darling  and  mine. 

She's  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May ; 
She's  sweet  as  the  ev'ning  amang  the  new  bay  : 
As  blithe  and  as  artless  as  the  Iambs  on  the  lea, 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  e'e. 

But  Oh  !  she's  an  heiress,  auld  Robin's  a  laird, 
And  my  daddie  has  nought  but  a  cot-house 

and  yard ; 
A  wooer  like  me  maunna  hope  to  come  speed, 
The  wounds  I  must  liide  that  will  soon  be  my 
dead. 

The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings  me 

nane; 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  isgane  : 
I  wander  my  lane  like  a  night-troubled  ghaist, 
And  1  sigh  as  my  heart  it  would  burst  in  my 

breast. 

O,  bad  she  been  but  of  lower  degree, 

I  then  might  hae  hop'd  she  wad  smil'd  upon 

me ! 
O,  how  past  descriving  had  then  been  my 

bliss, 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express  ! 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 

I  (unoan  Gtrai  came  hi  re  to 

I  hi.  Int.  tin  wooing  o% 
On  blythe  yule  night  when  we  wercfou, 

Jin,  hit,  tltr  rutting  o'l. 


Maggie  coost  her  head  fa'  high, 

1 b  'd  askleni  and  unco  skeagh, 

Garl  poor  Duncan  stand 

Jin,  /in,  tin  wooing  o't. 


Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd  ; 

Jin,  It  a,  kc. 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

Iln,  lm.  ice. 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  ecu  baith  bleer'1  and  blin', 
Spak  o'  low  pin  owre  a  linn  ; 

JJu,  lm,  ice. 


Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

Ha,  ha,  kc. 
Slighted  love  is  sairto  bide, 

llu,  lm.  ice. 
Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 
For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ? 
She  may  gae  to — France  for  me ! 

Ha,  ha,  kc. 


How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Jin.  ha,  ice. 
Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  heal, 

Jht,  Int.  ice. 

iii  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings ; 
And  O,  her  con.  they  spak  sic  tilings ! 
Ha,  ha,  kc. 


Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace, 

Ha,  ha,  ice. 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case, 

Ha,  lui.  kc. 
Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath ; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith. 

Ha,  ha,  kc. 


SONG. 
Tune — "I  had  a  horse." 


O  roORTiTH  cauld,  and  restless  love, 

Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye ; 
Yet  poortith  a'  I  could  forgive, 

An'  'twere  na  for  my  Feanie, 
O  why  shouldfate  sic  pleasure  have, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining? 
Or  why  sac  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

Depend  bn  Fortune's  shining? 


BURNS'  POEMS- 


87 


This  warld's  wealth  when  I  think  on, 
Its  pride,  and  a'  the  lave  o't ; 

Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man. 
That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't. 
O  why,&c. 

Her  een  sac  bonnie  blue  betray, 
How  she  repays  my  passion  ; 

But  prudence  is  her  o'crword  ay, 
She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 
O  why,  &c. 

O  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 
O  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 
O  tchy,  Sec. 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter's  fate ! 

He  wooes  his  simple  dearie  ; 
The  sillie  bogles,  wealth  and  state, 

Can  never  make  them  eerie. 
O  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love, 

Depend  on  Fortune's  sliming  ? 


GALLA  WATER. 

There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 
That  wander  thro'  the  blooming  heather ; 

But  Yarrow  braes,  nor  Ettric  shaws, 
Can  match  the  lads  o'  Galla  water. 

But  there  is  ane,  a  secret  ane, 
Aboon  them  a'  I  lo'e  him  better  ; 

And  I'll  be  his,  and  he'll  be  mine, 
The  bonnie  lad  o'  Galla  water. 

Altho'  his  daddie  was  nae  laird, 
And  tho'  I  hae  nae  meikle  tocher ; 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love, 
We'll  tent  our  flocks  by  Galla  water. 

It  ne'er  was  wealth,  it  ne'er  was  wealth, 
That  coft  contentment,  peace,  or  pleasure, 

The  bands  and  bliss  o1  mutual  love, 
O  that's  the  chiefest  warld's  treasure ! 


LORD  GREGORY. 


O  mirk,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour, 
And  loud  the  tempest's  roar  ; 

A  waefu1  wanderer  seeks  thy  tow'r, 
Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door. 


An  exile  frae  her  father's  ha', 
And  a'  for  loving  thee  ; 

At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw, 
If  lore  it  may  na  be. 


Lord  Gregory,  mind'st  thou  not  tho  grove, 

By  bonnie  Irwine  side, 
Where  first  I  own'd  that  virgin-love 

I  lang,  lang  had  denied. 


How  aftcn  didst  tliou  pledge  and  vow, 
Thou  wad  for  ay  be  mine '. 

And  my  fond  heart,  itscl  sae  true, 
It  ne'er  mistrusted  thine. 


Hard  is  thy  heart,  Lord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast : 
Thou  dart  of  heaven  that  flashest  by, 

O  wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above, 

Your  willing  victim  see  ! 
But  spare,  and  pardon  my  fause  love, 

His  wran<js  to  heaven  and  me ! 


MARY  MORISON. 


Tune — "Bide  ye  yet." 


O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trystcd  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor  : 
How  blithly  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun  ; 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string, 

The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw : 
Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  fault  is  loving  thee? 
If  lovefor  love  thou  v/iltna  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ! 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


88 


BURNS*  POEMS. 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Now  tired  with  wandering, haud  awa  home; 

Come  to  my  bosom  my  ae  only  de, 

And  tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie  the 
same. 

Loud  blew  the  cauld  winter  winds  at  our  part- 
ing i 
It  was  na  the  blast  brought  the  tear  to  my 
e'e  : 
Now  welcome  the  simmer,  and  welcome  my 
Willie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Ye  hurricanes,  rest  in  the  cave  o'  your  slum- 
bers, 
O  how  your  wild  horrors  a  lover  alarms  ! 
Awaken  ye  breezes,  row  gently  ye  billows, 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 

But  if  he's  forgotten  his  faithfullest  Nannie, 
O  still  llow  between  us,  thou  wide  roaring 
main  ; 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 

But  dying  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain  ! 


THE  SAME, 


As  altered  by  Mr.  Erskine  and  Mr.  Thomson. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  baud  awa  name, 

Come  to  my  bosom  my  ain  only  dearie, 

Tell  mo   thou  bring'st  me   my    Willie  the 
same. 

Winter-winds  blew  loud  and  caul  at  our  part- 
ing* 
Fears  for  my  H  illie  brought  tears  in  my  e'e, 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my   Wil- 
lie, 
As  simmer  to  nature,  so  Willie  to  me. 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  o'  your  slum- 
bers, 
How  your  dread  howling  a  lover  alarms  ! 
Blow  soft  ye  breezes  !  roll  gently  ye  billows  I 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 


Bid  <>h,ifhe'sfailhless,an<lmiinl<;n<t\n:i  Nannie, 
Flow  still    between    us    thou   dark-heaving 
main  '. 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 
While  dying  1  think  thai  nay  Willie's  my  ain. 


Our  Poet,  with  his  usual  judgment,  adopted  some  of 
these  alterations,  ami  rejected  others.  The  last  edi- 
tion is  as  follows  : 

Here  awa,  th<  andering  WTillie, 

Here  awa,  (here  awa.  baud  awa  name  ; 

Come  to  my  bosom  my  ain  only  dearie, 
Tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  part- 
ing, 
Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  e'e, 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Wil- 
lie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms  in  the  cave  of  your  slum- 
bers, 
I  low  your  dread  howling  a  lover  alarms  ! 
W.uiken  ye  breezes,  row  gently  ye  billows, 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my 
arms. 

But  oh  !  if  he's  faitliless,  and  minds  na  his 
Nannie, 
Flow  still   between   us    thou   wide-roaring 
main  ; 
May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  nevei  trow  it, 
But,  dying,  believe  that  my   Willie's   my 
ain. 


OPEN  THE  DOOR  TO  ME,  OH 


WITH  ALTERATIONS. 

Oh,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  mc,  Oh  ! 
Tho'  thou  hast  been  false,  I'll  ever  prove  true, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  mc,  Oh  ! 

Cauld  is  tho  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek, 
But  caulder  thy  love  for  me,  Oh  ! 

The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  heart, 
Is  nought  to  my  pains  frao  thee,  Oh  ! 

The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  wliite 
wave, 
And  time  is  setting  with  me,  Oli ! 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell  !   for  mair 
I'll  ne'er  trouble  them,  nor  thee,  Oh  ! 

She  has  open'd  the  door,  she  has  open'd  it 
wide ; 
She  sees  Ins  pale  con  6  OD  Ihe  plain,  Oh! 
My   true   love,  she  cried,  and  sank   down   by 

his   side, 

i\Y\  er  i"  i  ise  again,  Oh  ! — 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


89 


JESSIE. 


Tune — "  Bonny  Dundee." 


True  hearted  was  lie,  the  sad  swain  o'  the 
Yarrow, 
And  fair  aro  the  maids  on  the  banks  o'  the 
Ayr, 
But  by  the  sweet  side  o'  the  Nith's  winding 
river, 
Are  lovers  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair  : 
To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland  all  over ; 

To  equal  young  Jessie  you  seek  it  in  vain ; 
Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 
And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain. 

O,  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morning, 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close  ; 
But  in  the  fair  presence  o'  lovely  young  Jessie, 

Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 
Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  ensnaring; 

Enthron'd  in  her  een  lie  delivers  his  law ; 
And  still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a  stranger ! 

Her  modest  demeanour's  the  jewel  of  a'. 


WHEN  WILD  WAR'S  DEADLY  BLAST 
WAS  BLAWN. 

Air—"  The  Mill  Mill  O." 


When  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 

And  gentle  peace  returning, 
Wi'  mony  a  sweet  babe  fartherless, 

And  mony  a  widow  mourning, 
I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 

Where  lang  I'd  been  a  lodger, 
My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth, 

A  poor  and  honest  sodger. 

A  leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast, 

My  hand  unstain'd  wi'  plunder ; 
And  for  fair  Scotia's  hame  again, 

I  cheery  on  did  wander. 
I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 
I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile 

That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 

At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonnie  glen, 

Where  early  life  I  sported  ; 
I  pass'd  the  mill,  and  trysting  thorn, 

Where  Nancy  aft  I  courted  : 
Wlia  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling! 
And  turn'd  me  round  to  hide  1  lie  flood 

That  in  my  cen  was  swelling. 
G  2 


Wi'  aller'd  voice,  quoth  I,  sweet  lass, 

Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom, 
O  !  happy,  happy  may  ho  be, 

That's  dearest  to  thy  bosom! 
My  purse  is  light,  tVe  far  to  gang, 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  loi 
I've  serv'd  my  king  and  country  lang, 

Take  pity  on  a  sodger. 

Sae  wistfully  she  gaz'd  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever  : 
Quo'  she,  a  sodger  ance  I  lo'ed, 

Forget  him  shall  I  never  : 
Our  humble  cot,  and  namely  fare, 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it, 
That  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade, 

Ye 're  welcome  for  the  sake  o't. 


She  gaz'd — she  redden'd  like  a  rose — 

Syne  pale  like  ony  lily  ; 
She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ? 
By  him  who  made  yon  sun  ant  sky — 

By  whom  true  love's  regarded, 
I  am  the  man;  and  thus  may  still 

True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

The  wars  are  o'er,  and  I'm  come  hame, 

And  find  thee  still  true-hearted ; 
Tho'  poor  in  gear,  we're  rich  in  love, 

And  mair  we'se  ne'er  be  parted. 
Quo'  she,  my  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  mailen  plenish'd  fairly  ; 
And  come,  my  faithfu'  sodger  lad, 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly ! 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor ; 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize ; 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honour ; 
The  brave  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise, 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger, 
Remember  he's  his  country's  stay 

In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


MEG  O'  THE  MILL. 


Air — "  O  bonny  lass,  will  you  lie  in  a  Barrack?' 


O  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten, 
An'  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten? 
She  has  gotten  a  coof  wi'  a  claut  o'  siller, 
And  broken  the  heart  o'  the  barley  Miller. 

The  Miller  was  strappin,  the  Miller  was  ruddy ; 
A  heart  like  a  lord,  and  a  hue  like  a  lady : 
The  laird  was  a  widdiefu',  bleerit  knurl: — 
She's  left  the  guid  fellow  and  ta'en  the  churl. 


00 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Tlie  miller  he  hccht  her  heart  leal  and  loving : 
The  Laird  did   address  her  wi'  matter  inair 

moving, 
Afini'  rse  wi' a  clear  chained  bridle, 

A  whip  by  her  side,  and  a  honnie  side-saddle. 

O  wac  on  the  siller,  it  is  sac  prevailing; 
And  wae  on  the  love  thai  is  fix'd  on  a  mailen! 

A  tocher's  nac  word  in  a  true  lover's  parle, 
But,  gie  me  my  love,  and  a  rig  lor  the  warl ! 


SONG. 


Tune — "Liggeram  Cosh." 

Blithe  hae  I  been  on  yon  lull, 

As  the  lambs  before  me ; 
Careless  ilka  thought  and  free, 

As  th#breeze  ilew  o'er  me  : 
Now  nae  longer  sport  and  play, 

Mirth  or  san<r  can  please  me ; 
Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 

Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 

Heavy,  heavy,  is  the  task, 

Hopeless  love  declaring: 
Trembling,  I  dow  nocht  but  glow'r, 

Sighing,  dumb,  despairing! 
If  she  winna  case  the  thraws, 

In  my  bosom  swelling ; 
Underneath  the  grass  green-sod, 

Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 


SONG. 

Tune—"  Logan  Water." 

O  Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide, 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride  ; 
And  years  sinsyne  has  o'er  us  run, 
Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 
But  now  thy  flow'ry  banks  appear 
Like  drumlie  winter,  dark  and  drear, 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  facs, 
Far,  far  frac  me  and  Logan  braes. 

A<rain  the  merry  montli  o'  May, 

Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay  ; 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bow'rs. 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flow're ; 

Blithe,  morning  lifts  his  rosy  eve, 

And  ev'ning'fl  ti  an  axe  tears  of  joy  : 

My     oul,  di  '  surveys, 

While  Willie's  far  frac  Logan  braes. 

Within  yon  milk-white  hawthorn  bush. 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  Ornish; 


Her  faithfu'  mate  will  share  her  toil, 
Or  wi'  his  song  her  cares  beguile, 
Bui  I  wf  iuv  sweel  nurslings  here, 
Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  chei  r, 
Pass  widow'd  nights  and  joyless  days, 
While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes"! 

O  wac  upon  you,  men  o'  state, 
That  brethren  muse  to  deadly  hate! 
As  ye  make  mony  a  fond  he;irt  mourn 
Sae  may  it  "U  your  heads  return  ! 
How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy, 
The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry? 

But  s i  may  peace  bring  happy  days, 

And  Willie,  name  to  Logan  braes! 


FRAGMENT, 


WITIIERSPOONS  COLLECTION 

OF 

SCOTS  SONGS. 
Air — "  Hughie  Graham." 

"  O  r.iN  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 
That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa', 

And  I  mysel  a  drop  o'  dew, 
Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa' ! 

"  Oh,  there  beyond  expression  blest, 
I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night ; 

Scal'd  on  her  silk-salt  fauldsto  rest. 
Till  fiey'd  awa'  by  Phoebus'  light." 

*  O  were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 
Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring; 

And  1,  a  bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing : 

How  I  wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude! 

But  1  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youtlifu'  May  its  bloom  renew'd.* 


BONNIE  JEAN. 

There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair, 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  Been, 
When  a'  the  fairest  maids  were  met, 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonnie  Jean. 

•  These  stanzas  were  added  by  Duma. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


9\ 


And  ay  sho  wrought  her  mammie's  work, 
And  ay  she  sang  sac  merrilie : 

The  blithest  bird  upon  the  bush 
Had  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 


But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  little  lint  while's  nest ; 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flow'rs, 
And  love  wdl  break  tho  soundest  rest. 


Young  Robio  was  the  brawest  lad, 
The  flower  and  pride  o'  a1  the  glen ; 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep  and  kye, 
And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 


He  gaed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  tryste, 
He  dane'd  wi'  Jeanie  on  the  down  ; 

And  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist, 
Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stown. 


As  in  the  bosom  o'  the  stream, 
The  moon  beam  dwells  at  dewy  e'en ; 

So  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love, 
Within  the  breast  o'  bormie  Jean. 


And  now  she  works  her  mammie's  wark, 
And  ay  she  sighs  wi'  care  and  pain  ; 

Ye  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 
Or  what  wad  mak  her  weel  again. 


But  did  na  Jeanie's  heart  loup  light, 

And  did  na  joy  blink  in  her  e'e, 
As  Robie  tauld  a  tale  o'  love, 
Ae  e'enin  on  the  lily  lea? 


The  sun  was  smiting  in  the  west, 
The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove ; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest, 
And  whisper'd  thus  his  tale  o'  love  : 


O  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo'e  thee  dear; 

O  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me  ! 
Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie's  cot, 

And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi'  me  ? 


At  barn  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge, 
Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee ; 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells, 
And  tent  the  waving  com  wi'  me. 


Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do? 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na: 
At  length  she  blush'd  a  sweet  i 

And  love  was  ay  between  them  twa. 


PIIILLIS  THE  FAIR. 


Tune—"  Robin  Adair." 

While  larks  with  little  wing, 

Fann'd  the  pure  air, 
Tasting  the  breathing  spring, 

Forth  I  did  fare  : 
Gay  the  sun's  golden  eye, 
Pecp'd  o'er  the  mountains  high ; 
Such  thy  morn!  did  I  cry, 

Pbillis  the  fair 

V 
In  each  bird's  careless  song, 

Glad  did  I  share ; 
While  yon  wild  flow'rs  among, 

Chance  led  me  there : 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day, 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray ; 
Such  thy  bloom !  did  I  say, 

Hiillis  the  fair. 


Down  in  a  shady  walk, 

Doves  cooing  were, 
I  mark'd  the  cruel  hawk 

Caught  in  a  snare : 
So  kind  may  fortune  be, 
Such  make  his  destiny, 
He  who  would  injure  thee, 
Phillis  the  fair. 


SONG. 

To  the  same  Tune. 


Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore, 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves'  dashing 
There  would  I  weep  my  woes,  [roar : 

There  seek  my  last  repose, 
Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close, 
Ne'er  to  wake  more. 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare, 
All  thy  fond  plighted  vows — fleeting  as  air ! 
To  thy  new  lover  hie, 
Laugh  o'er  thy  perjury, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  try, 

What  peace  is  there ! 


SONG. 

Tune—"  Allan  Water." 

By  Allan  stream  I  chane'd  to  rove, 
While  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Renleddi  ;* 

*  A  mountain  west  of  Strath  Allan,  3,009  feet  high. 


92 


The  winds  wore  wliispcring  tliro'  the  grove, 
The  yellow  com  was  waving'  ready : 

I  listen  d  to  a  lover's  sang, 
And  thought  on  youthfu'  pleasures  mony ; 

And  ay  the  wild-wood  echoes  rann- — 
O,  dearly  do  I  lovo  thee,  Annie ! 


O,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie; 
Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour, 

The  place  and  time  I  met  my  dearie ! 
Her  head  upon  my  throbbing 

She,  sinking,  said.  "  I'm  thine  forever!" 
While  mony  a  kiss  the  seal  imprest, 

Tile  sacred  vow,  we  ne'er  should  sever. 


The  haunt  o'  spring's  the  primrose  brae, 

The  simmer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow  ; 
How  cheery  thro'  her  shortening  day, 

Is  autumn,  in  her  weeds  o'  yellow  ; 
But  can  they  inch  the  glowing  heart, 

Or  chain  the  sou]  in  speechless  pleasure, 
Or  thro'  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart, 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom's  treasure  ? 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL  COME  TO  YOU, 
MY  LAD. 


O  wmsTLE,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad : 
O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad  : 
Tho'  father  and  mithcr  and  a'  should  gae  mad, 
O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

But  warily  tent,  when  yc  come  to  court  me, 
And  come  na  unless  the  back-yctt  be  a-jce ; 
Syne  up  the  back-stile,  and  let  nae  body  see, 
And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin  to  me, 
And  come,  &c. 

O  whistle,  &:c. 


At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene'er  ye  meet  me, 
Gang  by  me  as  tho'  that  ye  car'd  na  a  flic  : 
But  steal  me  a  blink  o'  your  bonnic  black  e'e, 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  nalooking  at  me. 
Yet  look,  &c. 

O  whistle,  Sec. 


Ay  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  fur  me, 
And  while-  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a 
Bui  courl  na  atiitner,  tho  jokin  ye  be, 
1  '"r  '■  8  wyle  your  fancy  fiae  me. 

For  fear,  &c. 

O  whistle,  See. 


SONG. 


Tine — "  The  mucking  o'  Gcordie's  byre." 

Apown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander, 

To  mark  the  sweel  flowers  as  they  spring; 
Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander, 

Of  Phillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 


Awa  we  your  belles  and  your  beauties. 

They  mever  vn  her  can  compare: 
Whoever  has  met  v:i  my  Phillis, 

lias  met  wi  the  qu< to,  u"  thefair. 

The  daisy  amus'd  my  fond  fancy, 

So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild; 
Thou  emblem,  said  J,  o'  my  1  nillis, 

For  she  is  simplicity's  child. 
Awa,  Sec. 

The  rose-bud  's  the  blush  o'  my  charmer, 
Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when  'tis  prcst : 

How  fair  and  how  pure  is  the  lily, 
But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast. 
Awa,  Sec. 

Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  in  the  arbour, 
They  ne'er  wi'  my  Phillis  can  vie : 

Her  breath  is  tho  breath  o'  the  woodbine 
Its  dew-drop  o'  diamond,  her  eye. 
Awa,  See. 

Her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning 

That  wakes  thro' the  jrrecn-sprcading  grove, 

WhenPhcebus  peeps  over  the  mountains, 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 
Awa,  Sec. 


But  beaut}'  how  frail  and  how  fleeting, 
The  bloom  of  a  fine  summer's  day  ! 

While  worth  in  the  mind  o'  my  Phillis 
Will  flourish  without  a  decay. 
Awa,  Sec 


SONG. 

Air—"  Cauld  Kail." 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 
And  pledge  we  ne'er  shall  sunder; 

And  I  shall  spurn  as  vilest  dust 
The  warm's  wealth  and  jrrandour: 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


93 


And  do  1  hear  my  Jcanie  own, 
That  equal  transports  move  her  ? 

(  ask  for  dearest  life  alone 
That  I  may  livo  to  love  her. 

Thus  in  my  arms,  wi'  all  thy  charms, 

I  clasp  my  countless  treasure  ; 
I'll  seek  nae  mair  o'  heaven  to  share  ; 

Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure : 
And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 

I  swear  I'm  thine  for  ever  ! 
And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never. 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers, 
To  deck  her  gay,  green  spreading  bowers  ; 
And  now  conies  in  my  happy  hours, 
To  wander  wi'  my  Davie. 


Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knoice, 
Dainty  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 

There  111  spend  the  day  wCyou, 
My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 

The  crystal  waters  round  us  fa', 
The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a', 
The  scented  breezes  round  us  blaw, 
A  wandering  wi'  my  Davie. 
Meet  me,  &c. 

When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare, 
Then  thro'  the  dews  I  will  repair, 
To  meet  my  faithfu'  Davie. 
Meet  me,  Sec. 

When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 
The  curtain  draws  o'  nature's  rest, 
I  flee  to  his  arms  I  lo'e  best, 

And  that's  my  ain  dear  Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 
Bonnie  Davie,  dainty  Davie, 

There  1 11  spend  the  day  wi'  you, 
My  ain  dear  dainty  Davie. 


SONG 

Tune—"  Oran  Gaoil." 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive  ; 

Thou  goest,  thou  darling  of  my  heart ! 
Sever'd  from  thee  can  I  survive  ? 

But  fate  has  will'd  and  we  must  part. 


I'll  often  greet  this  surging  swell, 
Yon  distant  isle  will  often  hail  : 
"  E'en  here  I  took  the  hist  farewell ; 

There  latest  mark'd  her  vanish'd  sail.' 

Along  the  solitary  shore, 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  mo  cry, 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar 

I'll  westward  torn  1113-  wistful  eye: 
Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I'll  say, 

Wtiere  now  my  Nancy's  path  may  be  1 
While  tluo'  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray, 

O  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  1 


SONG. 

Tune—"  Fee  him  Father." 

Tnou  hast  left  mo  ever,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  left 

me  ever, 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  left 

me  ever. 
Aften  hast  thou  vow'd  that  death,  Only  should 

us  sever. 
Now  thou'st  left  thy  lass  for  ay — I  maun  see 

thee  never,  Jamie, 
I'll  see  thee  never. 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  me 

forsaken. 
Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie,  Thou  hast  me 

forsaken. 
Thou  canst  love  anither  jo,  While  my  heart  is 

breaking. 
Soon  my  weary  een  I'll  close — Never  mail-  to 

waken,  Jamie, 
Ne'er  mair  to  waken. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  hmg  syne, 
Well  tak  u  cup  0'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syni. 

We  twa  hae  ran  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'l  the  gowans  fine ; 
But  we've  wandered  mony  a  weary  foot, 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 


94 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Wc  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  morrun  sun  till  dine  : 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hac  roar'd, 

Sin  auld  lang  sync. 
For  auld,  ice. 

And  bore's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier, 

And  gie'fi  a  hand  o'  tliine  ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willic  waught, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
Fur  auld,  &c. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I'll  he  mine  ; 
Ami  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  ice. 


BANNOCK-BURN 

ROBERT  BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  DIS  ARMY. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  glorious  victory. 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour  ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lower  ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power 
Edward  !  chains  and  slavery ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor  !  coward  !  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Free-man  stand,  or  free-man  fa', 
Caledonian  !  on  wi'  me ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
Wc  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be — shall  be  free  I 


Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  I 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Forward  !  let  us  do,  or  die]! 


FAIR  JENNY. 

Tune — "  Saw  ye  my  father  ?" 

lave  met  in  the  miming, 
Thai 
Where  is  the  peat 
At  evening  the  wild  woods  among  ? 


No  more  a-winding  the  course  of  yon  river, 
And  marking  sweet  flow'rets  so  fair  : 

No  more  I  trace  the  light  footsteps  of  pleasure, 
But  sorrow  and  sad  sigliing  care. 

Is  it  that  summer's  forsaken  our  valleys, 
.  And  grim,  surly  winter  is  near  ? 
No,  no,  the  bees  humming  round  the  gay  roses, 
Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 

Fain  would  I  hide  what  I  fear  to  discover, 
Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I  known  : 

All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  in  my  bosom, 
Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immortal, 
Nor  hope  dare  a  comfort  bestow : 

Come  then,  enamour'd  and  fond  of  my  anguish, 
Enjoyment  I'll  seek  in  my  wo. 


SONG. 

Tune—"  The  Collier's  Dochtcr." 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 
The  fickle  Fair  can  give  thee, 

Is  but  a  fairy  treasure, 

Thy  hopes  will  soon  deceive  thee. 

The  billows  on  the  ocean, 
The  breezes  idly  roaming, 

The  clouds'  uncertain  motion, 
They  are  but  types  of  woman. 

O  art  thou  not  ashamed, 
To  dote  upon  a  feature  ? 

If  man  thou  wouldst  be  named, 
Despise  the  silly  creature. 

Go,  find  an  honest  fellow  ; 

Good  claret  set  before  thee  : 
Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow, 

And  then  to  bed  in  glory. 


SONG. 

Tune—"  The  Quaker's  wife." 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 

Tliine.  my  Lively  Nai 
Ev'ry  pulse  along  my  veins, 

Kv'ry  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  hi 

air  had  wrung  iis  core, 
That  would  heal  its  anguish. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


95 


Take  away  theso  rosy  lips, 
Rich  with  balmy  treasure  : 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love, 
Lest  I  die  with  pleasure. 


What  is  life  when  wanting  love  ? 

Night  without  a  morning  : 
Lovers  the  cloudless  summer  sun, 

Nature  gay  adorning. 


SONG. 


Tune— "Jo  Janet." 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 
Nor  longer  idly  rave,  Sir  ; 

,Tho'  I  am  your  wedded  wife, 
Yet  I  am  not  your  slave,  Sir. 

"  One  of  two  must  still  obey, 

Nancy,  Nancy  ; 
Is  it  man  or  woman,  say, 

My  spouse,  Nancy  ?" 

If  'tis  still  the  lordly  word, 

Service  and  obedience  ; 
111  desert  my  sov'reign  lord, 

And  so,  good  b'ye  allegiance  ! 


'  Sad  will  I  be,  so  bereft, 

Nancy,  Nancy  ; 
Yet  I'll  try  to  make  a  shift, 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 

My  poor  heart  then  break  it  must, 
My  last  hour  I'm  near  it : 

When  you  lay  me  in  the  dust 

Think,  think  how  you  will  bear  it. 

"  I  will  hope  and  trust  in  Heaven, 

Nancy,  Nancy  ; 
Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given, 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 


Well,  Sir,  from  the  silent  dead 
Still  I'll  try  to  daunt  you  ; 

Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 
Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you. 


"  I'll  wed  another,  like  my  dear 

Nancy,  Nancy  ; 
Then  all  hell  will  fly  for  fear, 

My  spouse.  Nancy." 


SONG. 


Air—"  The  Sutor's  Dochter." 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart. 

Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul, 

That's  the  love  I  bear  thee  ! 

I  swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Only  thou,  I  swear  and  vow, 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Lassie,  say  thou  lo'es  me ; 
Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain, 
Say  na  thou'lt  refuse  me  : 
If  it  winna,  canna  be, 
Thou,  for  thine  may  choose  me, 
Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 


BANKS  OF  CREE. 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower, 
All  underneath  the  birchen  shade ; 

The  village-bell  has  toll'd  the  hour, 
O  what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid  ? 

'Tis  not  Maria's  whispering  call ; 

'Tis  but  the  balmy-breathing  gale  ; 
Mixt  with  some  warbler's  dying  fall 

The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria's  voice  I  hear  ! 

So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove, 
Plis  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer, 

At  once  'tis  music — and  'tis  love. 

And  art  thou  come  !  and  art  thou  true  ! 

O  welcome  dear  to  love  and  me  ! 
And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew, 

Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree. 


VERSES  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

WITH 

A  PRESENT  OF  SONGS. 

Here, where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  lives, 
Ih  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  numbers  join'd, 

Accept  the'  gifl  ;  tho'  humble  he  who  gives, 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful  mind 


96 


BURNS'  POEMS- 


So  may  no  ruffian-feeling  in  thy  breast, 
I  Jjecorrfant  jar  thy  bosom-chords  among ; 

But  peace  attune  thy  gentle  soul  to  rest, 
Or  love  ecslalie  wake  his  seraph  song. 

Or  pity's  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears, 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  wo  reveals  ; 

While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain  endears, 
And  heaven-born  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

Tune—"  O'er  the  Hills,*'  &c. 

I  Tow  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 
When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad? 
How  can  I  the  thought  forego, 
He's  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe  ? 
Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove  ; 
Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love  ; 
Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 
Are  with  him  that's  far  away. 


On  the  seas  and  far  away, 
On  stormy  seas  and  far  away : 
Nightly  dreams  and  tlioughls  by  day 
Are  ay  with  him  that's  far  away. 

When  in  summer's  noon  I  faint, 
As  weary  flocks  around  mc  pant, 
Haply  in  this  scorching  sun 
My  sailor's  thund'ring  at  his  gun  : 
Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  ! 
Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy  ! 
Fate  do  with  me  what  you  may 
Spare  but  him  that's  far  away  I 
On  the  seas,  Sec. 


At  the  starless  midnight  hour, 

When  winter  rules  With  boundless  pow'r ; 

As  tin-  storms  the  forests  tear, 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air, 

Listening  to  the  doubling  roar, 

■  mi  the  rocky  shore, 
All  1  can — I  weep  and  pray, 
For  his  weal  that's  far  away 
On  the  seas,  Sec. 

Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend, 
And  bid  wild  war  his  ravage  end, 
Man  witli  brother  man  to  meet, 
.  -  a  brother  kindly  lirect  : 

;>'rous  gales, 
sails, 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey, 

My  <](•;, r  hid  that's  i'ar  away. 
On  the  seat  Sec. 


SONG 


Tune—"  Ca'  the  Yowcs  to  the  Knowes." 


Ca"  the  yours  to  the  knmres, 
Co1  them  irhare  the  heather  grows, 
Ca*  tin  m  whare  the  burnie  rows, 
My  bonnic  dearie. 

Hark,  the  mavis1  evening  sang 
Sounding  Clouden's  woods  ainar.g; 
Then  a-raulding  let  us  gang, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
CeC  the,  Sec. 

We'll  gac  down  by  Cloudcn  side, 
Thro'  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 
O'er  the  waves,  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sac  clearly. 
CV  the,  Sec. 

Yonder  Cloudcn's  silent  towers, 
Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers, 
Fairies  danec  sac  cheery. 
CeC  the,  Sec. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear  ; 
Thou'rt  to  love  and  heav'n  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thec  near, 
My  bonnic  dearie. 
CeC  the,  Sec. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart ; 
1  can  die — but  canna  part, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 
CV  the,  Sec. 


SHE  SAYS  SHE  LO'ES  ME  BEST 
OF  A'. 

Tune—"  Onagh's  Water-fall." 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 

I  [er  ej  ebrows  of  a  darker  hue, 
Bewitehingly  o'er-arching 

Twa  laughing  ecu  o'  bonnic  blue. 
Her  smiling  sae  wyling, 

Wad  make  a  wretch  forget  his  wo  ; 
What  pleasure,  what  treasure, 

I    [lio  thrse  rOSJ    lips  tO  'TOW  ! 

Such  was  my  Chloris'  bonnie  face, 
When  first  her  bonnie  face  I  saw  ; 

And  ay  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm, 
She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a1. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


97 


Like  harmony  her  motion ; 

Her  pretty  ancle  is  a  spy 
Betraying  fair  proportion, 

Wad  mak  a  saint  forget  the  sky. 
Sae  warming,  sae  charming, 

Her  faultless  form,  and  gracefu'  air ; 
Ilk  feature — auld  nature 

Declar'd  that  she  could  do  nae  mair : 
Hers  aro  the  willing  chains  o'  love, 

By  conquering  beauty's  sovereign  law ; 
And  ay  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 

Let  others  love  the  city, 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon ; 
Gie  me  the  lonely  valley, 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon ; 
Fair  beaming,  and  streaming, 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang  ; 
While  falling,  recalling, 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  her  sang : 
There,  dearest  Chloris,  wilt  thou  rove 

By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw, 
And  hear  my  vows  o'  truth  and  love, 

And  say  thou  lo'es  me  best  of  a'  I 


SAW  YE  MY  PHELY. 

(Quasi  dicat  Phillis.) 

Tune — "  When  she  cam  ben  she  bobbit." 

O  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
O  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  i 
She's  down  i'  the  grove,  she's  wi'  a  new  love, 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  Willy. 

What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 
What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely? 
She  lets  thee  to  wit  that  she  has  thee  forgot,' 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee  her  Willy. 

O  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely ! 
O  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely ! 
As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou's  fair, 
Thou's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  Willy. 


SONG. 

Tune—"  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen." 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, 
When  I  am  frae  my  dearie ; 

I  restless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn, 
Tho'  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 
H 


For  oh,  her  lanely  nights  are  lang 
And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie  ; 

And  oh,  her  widow'd  heart  is  suir, 
That's  absent  frae  her  dearie. 

When  I  think  on  the  lightsome  days 
I  spent  wi'  thee  my  dearie  ; 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar, 
How  can  I  be  but/eerie? 
For  oh,  &.c. 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours ; 

The  joyless  day  how  dreary  ! 
It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 
For  oh,  Sec. 


SONG. 
Tune — "  Duncan  Gray.'' 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain, 

Of  inconstancy  in  love ; 
Let  not  woman  e'er  complain, 

Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove : 

Look  abroad  through  Nature's  range, 
Nature's  mighty  law  is  change  ; 

Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange, 
Man  should  then  a  monster  prove  ? 

Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies  ; 

Ocean's  ebb,  and  ocean's  flow  : 
Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise, 

Round  and  round  the  seasons  go. 

Why  then  ask  of  silly  man, 

To  oppose  great  Nature's  plan  ? 

We'll  be  constant  while  we  can — 
You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 


THE  LOVER'S  MORNING  SALUTE 
TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Tune—"  Deil  tak  the  Wars." 

Sleep'st  thou,  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest  crea- 

Rosy  morn  now  lifts  his  eye,  [ture 

Numbering  ilka  bud  which  Nature 

Waters  wi'  the  tears  o'  joy : 

Now  thro'  the  leafy  woods, 

And  by  the  reeking  floods, 
Wild  Nature's  tenants,  freely,  gladly  stray ; 

The  lintwhite  hi  his  bower 

Chants  o'er  the  breathing  flower  ; 

The  lav'rock  to  the  sky 

Ascends  wi'  sangs  o'  joy,  [day- 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless  the 


98 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Phoebus  gilding  the  brow  o'  morning, 

Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade, 
Nature  gladdening  and  adorning; 

Such  '"  me  my  lovely  maid. 

\'i    en  absenl  frae  my  fair, 

The  murky  shades  o'  care 
With  starless  gloom  o'ercast  my  sullen  sky ; 

But  when,  in  beauty's  light, 

She  meets  iny  ravish'd  sight, 

When  through  my  very  heart 

I  ter  beaming  glories  dirt  ; 
Tis  then  I  wake  to  life,  to  light,  and  joy. 


THE  AULD  MAN. 


Bvt  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green 

The  woods  rejoie'd  the  day, 
Thro'  gentle  showers  the  laugliing  flowers 

In  double  pride  were  gay  : 
But  now  our  joys  are  fled, 

On  winter  blasts  awa  ! 
Yet  maiden  May.  in  rich  array, 

Again  shall  bring  them  a'. 


But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thowe 

Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age ; 
My  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  bield, 

Sinks  in  tune's  wintry  rage. 
Oh,  age  has  weary  days, 

And  nights  o'  sleepless  pain  ! 
Thou  golden  time  o'  youthfu'  prime, 

Why  com'st  thou  not  again ! 


SONG. 

Tune — "  My  Lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground." 

My  ('Moris,  mark  how  rrrecn  the  groves, 

The  primrose  hanks  how  fair: 
The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers, 

And  wave  thy  llaxen  hair. 

The  lav'rock  shuns  the  palace  gay, 

And  o'er  the  cottage  sings  : 
For  nature  smiles  as  sweet  I  ween, 

To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 


Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu'  string 

In  lordly  lighted  ha': 
The  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed, 

Blithe,  in  the  birken  ehaw. 


The  princely  revel  may  survey 

Our  rustic  dance  wi'  scorn  ; 
But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn? 

The  shepherd,  in  the  flowery  glen, 
In  shepherd's  phrase  will  woo  : 

The  courtier  tells  a  finer  tale, 
But  is  Ins  heart  as  true  ? 

These  wild-wood  flowers  I've  pu'd,  to  deck 

That  spotless  breast  o'  thine  : 
The  courtiers'  gems  may  witness  love — 

But  'tis  na  love  like  mine. 


SONG, 

ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD  ENGLISH  ONE. 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  flow'rs  were  fresh  and  gay, 
One  morning,  by  the  break  of  day, 
The  youthful,  charming  Cliloe  ; 

From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose, 
Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose, 
And  o'er  the  flowery  mead  she  goes, 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 


Lovely  was  she  by  the  da  mi, 

Youthful  Chloc,  charming  Chloe, 
Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

The  feathcr'd  people,  you  might  see 
Perch'd  all  around  on  every  tree, 
In  notes  of  sweetest  melody, 
They  hail  the  charming  Chloc ; 

Till,  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies, 
The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 
Out-rivall'd  by  the  radiant  eyes 
Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe 
Lovely  was  she,  Sec. 


LASSIE  WP  THE  LINT- WHITE  LOCKy. 
Tune — "  Rothemurcliie's  Rant." 


Lassie  wV  the  lint-while  locks, 
Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

Wilt  thou  "('  mt  It  a!  thrjlocks, 
Will  thou  In  my  dearie,  O? 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


09 


Now  nature  deeds  tho  flowery  lea, 
And  a1  is  young-  and  sweet  like  thee  ; 
O  wilt  thou  share  its  joys  wi'  me, 
And  say  thou'lt  be  my  dearie,  O? 
Lassie  wi\  &c. 


And  when  the  welcome  simmer-shower, 
I  Ins  cheer'*!  ilk  drooping  little  flower, 
We'll  to  the  breathing  woodbine  bower 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  O. 
Lassie  wi\  kc. 

When  Cynthia  lights,  wi'  silver  ray, 
The  weary  shearer's  hameward  way  ; 
Thro'  yellow  waving  fields  we'll  stray, 
And  talk  o'  love,  my  dearie,  O. 
Lassie  wi\  &c. 

And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie's  midnight  rest; 
Enclasped  to  my  faitlifu'  breast, 
I'll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks, 

Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 
O  will  thou  wi"1  me  tent  the  flocks, 

J  fill  thou  be  my  dearie,  O  ? 


DUET. 


SONG. 


Tune — "  Nancy's  to  the  Greenwood,"  &c. 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 
Around  Eliza's  dwelling ! 

0  mem'ry !  spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling : 

Condemn'd  to  drag  a  hopeless  chain, 

And  yet  in  secret  languish, 
To  feel  a  fire  in  ev'ry  vein, 

Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 

Love's  veriest  wretch,  unseen,  unknown, 

I  fain  my  griefs  would  cover : 
The  bursting  sigh,  th'  unweeting  groan, 

Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

1  know  thou  doom'st  me  to  despair, 

Nor  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me ; 
But  oh,  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer, 
For  pity's  sake  forgive  me. 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I  heard, 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslav'd  me ; 
I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear'd, 

Till  fears  no  more  had  sav'd  mo  : 
Th'  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast, 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing; 
'Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 

In  overwhelming  ruin. 


Tune— "The  Sow's  Tail. 


-O  Fjuj.ly,  happy  be  that  day 
When  roving  through  the  irather'd  hay 
My  youthfu'  heart  was  stown  away, 
And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly. 


-O  Willy,  ay  I  bless  the  grove 
Where  first  I  own'd  my  maiden  love, 
Whilst    thou   did   pledge   the  Powers 
above 
To  be  my  ain  dear  Willy. 


he — As  songsters  of  the  early  year 
Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear, 
So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 
And  charming  is  my  Philly. 


she — As  on  the  brier  the  budding  rose 

Still  richer  breathes,  and  fairer  blows, 
So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 
The  love  I  bear  my  Willy. 


he — The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky, 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi'  joy, 
Were  ne'er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 
As  is  a  sight  o'  Philly. 


she — The  little  swallow's  wanton  wing, 

Tho'  wafting  o'er  the  flowery  spring, 
Did  ne'er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring, 
As  meeting  o'  my  Willy. 


he — The  bee  that  thro'  the  sunny  hour 
Sips  nectar  in  the  opening  flower, 
Compar'd  wi'  my  delight  is  poor, 
Upon  the  lips  o'  Philly. 


she — The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet 

When  evening  shades  in  silence  meet, 
Is  nocht  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 
As  is  a  kiss  o'  Willy. 

he — Let  fortune's  wheel  at  random  rin, 

And  fools  may  tine,  and  knaves  may 

win ; 
My  thoughts  are  a'  bound  up  in  ane, 
And  that's  my  ain  dear  Philly. 

SHE_What's  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie  ! 
I  care  nae  wealth  a  single  flie  ; 
The  lad  I  love's  the  lad  for  me, 
And  that's  my  ain  dear  Willy. 


100 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


SONG. 


Tune — "  Lumps  o'  Pudding. 

Con  n.NTF.n  wi1  little,  and  cantio  wi'  mair, 
Whene'er  I  forgather  wi1  sorrow  and  care, 
I  Lric  thcin  a  skolp,  as  they're  creepin  alang, 
Wi1  a  cog  o'  guid  swats,  and  an  auld  Scottish 
sang. 


troublesome 


I    whvles    claw    the    elbow 

Thought ; 
But  man  is  a  soger,  and  life  is  a  faught : 
My  mirth  and  guid  humour  are  coin  in  my 

pouch, 
And  my  Freedom's  my  lairdship  nae  monarch 

dare  touch. 


A  towmond  o'  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa', 
A  night  o'  guid  fellowship  sowthers  it  a' : 
When  at  the  blithe  end  o'  our  journey  at  last, 
Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road  he  has 
past? 

Blind  chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte  on  her 

way ; 
Be't  to  me,  be't  frae  me,  e'en  let  the  jade  gao : 
Coino  case,  or  come  travail ;  come  pleasure, 

or  pain, 
My  warst  word  is — "  Welcome,  and  welcome 

asrain !" 


CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS,  MY 
KATY? 

Tune— "Roy's  wife." 


Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Kali/? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy? 
Will  thou  know'st  my  aching  heart, 
Jlnd  canst  thou  leave  mc  thus  for  pity? 

Is  I  his  thy  plighted,  fond  regard, 
Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy? 

Is  lliis  thy  faithful  swain's  reward — 
An  aching,  broken  heart,  my  Katy? 
Canst  thou,  ke. 

Farewell !  and  ne'er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy ! 

Thou  may'st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear- 
But  not  a  love  like  mine,  my  Katy. 
Canst  tlvou,  See. 


MY  NANNIE'S  AWA. 


Tune — "  There'll  never  be  peace"  &c. 


Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  nature  arrays, 
And  listens  tho  lambkins  that  bleat  o'er  the 
braes,  [shaw ; 

While  birds   warble    welcome  in   ilka  green 
But  to  me  it's  delightless — my  Nannie's  awa. 


Tho  snaw-drap  and  primrose  our  woodlands 

adorn, 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weot  o'  the  morn  : 
They  pain  my  sad  bosom  sae  sweetly  they 

blaw, 
They  mind  me  o'  Nannie — and  Nannie's  awa. 

Thou  lav'rock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  of  the 

lawn, 
The  shephord  to  warn  o'  the  gray-breaking 

dawn, 
And  thou  mellow  mavis  that  hails  the  night-fa' 
Give  over  for  pity — my  Nannie's  awa. 


Come,  autumn,  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  and 

gray* 
And  sooth  me  wi'  tiding  o'  nature's  decay : 
The  dark,    dreary    winter,  and    wild-driving 

snaw, 
Alane  can  delight  me — now  Nannie's  awa. 


FOR  A'  THAT  AND  A'  THAT 


Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that ; 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a1  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toil's  obscure,  and  a'  that, 
Tho  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 

The  man's  tho  gowd  for  a'  that. 

Wliat  tho'  on  hainely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  th:it  ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that 


Ye  see  yon  birkic,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 

Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  Ins  word, 
He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that : 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


101 


For  a'  that,  and  a  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that, 

The  man  of  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he.mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a1  that. 


Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


SONG. 


Tune — Craigie-burn-wood. 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigie-burn, 
And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow, 

But  a'  the  pride  o'  spring's  return 
Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 

I  see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees, 
I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing  : 

But  what  a  weary  wight  can  please, 
And  care  his  bosom  wringing  ? 

Fain,  fain  would  I  my  griefs  impart, 

Yet  dare  na  for  your  anger  ; 
But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 

If  I  conceal  it  langer. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me, 

If  thou  shalt  love  anither, 
When  yon  green  leaves  fade  frao  the  tree, 

Around  my  grave  they'll  wither. 


SONG. 

Tune — "  Let  me  in  this  ae  night." 

O  lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet  ? 
Or  art  thou  wakin,  I  would  wit  ? 
For  love  has  bound  me  hand  and  foot, 
And  I  would  fain  be  in,  jo. 


O  let  me  in  this  ae  night, 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night ; 
For  pity's  sake  this  ae  night, 

O  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo. 

Thou  hears't  the  winter  wind  and  weet, 
Nae  star  blinks  thro'  the  driving  sleet ; 
Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet, 

And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 
O  let  me  in,  Sec. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws 
Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa's  ; 
The  cauldness  o'  thy  heart's  the  cause 
Of  a'  my  grief  and  pain,  jo. 
O  let  me  in,  &c 


HER  ANSWER. 

O  tell  na  me  o'  wind  and  rain, 
Upbraid  na  me  wi'  cauld  disdain  ! 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam  again, 
I  winna  let  you  in,  jo. 


J  tell  you  now  this  ae  night. 

This  ae,  ax,  ae  night  ; 
And  ancefor  a'  this  ae  night, 

I  winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

The  snellest  blast,  at  mirkest  hours, 
That  round  the  pathless  wand'rer  pours, 
Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures, 
That's  trusted  faithless  man,  jo. 
/  tell  you  now,  &c. 

The  sweetest  flower  that  deck'd  the  mead, 
Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed  ; 
Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  read, 
The  weird  may  be  her  ain,  jo, 
J  tell  you  now,  &c. 

The  bird  that  charm 'd  his  summer-day, 
Is  now  the  cruel  fowler's  prey ; 
Let  witless,  trusting  woman  say 
How  aft  her  fate's  the  same,  jo, 
I  tell  you  now,  kc. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOOD-LARK. 

Tune—"  Where'll  bonnie  Ann  lie."  Or, "  Loch- 
Eroch  Side." 

O  stay,  sweet  warbling  wood -lark  stay, 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray, 


102 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


A  hapless  lover  courts  lliy  lay. 
Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part, 
That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 
For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 
Wha  lulls  me  wi'  disdaining. 

Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind, 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 
Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 
Sic  notes  o'  wo  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care  ; 
O'  speechless  grief,  and  dark  despair  ; 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mail ! 
Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 


ON  CIILORIS  BEING  ILL. 
Tune — "  Ay  wakin  O." 


Lone,  long  the  night, 
I  feavy  amies  the  morrow, 

While  mi/  smil's  delight, 
Is  on  htr  bed  of  sorrow. 

Can  I  cease  to  care? 

Can  I  cease  to  languish. 
While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish? 
Long,  kc. 

Every  hope  is  fled. 
Every  fear  is  terror ; 

Slumber  even  I  dread, 
Every  dream  is  horror. 
Long,  &c. 

Hear  me,  Powr's  divine  ! 

Oh,  in  pity  hear  me  ! 
Take  aught  else  of  mine, 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me  ! 
Long,  &e. 


SONG. 

Tune — "  Humours  of  Glen." 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign  lands 

reckon,  [perfume, 

Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt   the 

Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'jgreen  breckan, 

Wi'  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow 

broom. 


Fa  r  dearer  to  mc  arc  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 

Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk  lowly 

unseen  :  [flowers, 

For  there,  lightly  tripping  aiming  the  wild 
A-listening  the  linnet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

Tho'  rich  is  the  breeze  in  their  gay  sunny  val- 
leys, 
And  cauld  Caledonia's  blast  on  the  wave  ; 
Their  sweet-scented  "woodlands  that  skirt  the 
proud  palace,  [slave ! 

What  are  they  f  The  haunt  of  the  tyrant  and 

Tho  slave's  spicy  forests,  and  gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi'  disdain  ; 
He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his  moun- 
tains, 
Save  love's  willing  fetters,  the  chains  o'  his 
Jean. 


SONG. 

Tune — "  Laddie,  lie  near  mc." 

'Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  e'e  was  my  ruin  ; 
Fair  tho'  she  be,  that  was  ne'er  my  undoing  : 
'Twas  the  dear  smile  when  nacbody  did  mind 

us, 
'Twas  the  bewitching,  sweet,  stown  glance  o' 

kindness. 

Sair  do  I  fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 
Sair  do  I  fear  that  despair  maun  abide  me; 
Hut  tho'  fell  fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever, 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for  ever. 

Mary,  I'm  thine  wi'  a  passion  sincerest,  — 
And  thou  hast  plighted  me  love  o'  the  dearest, 
And  thou'rt  the  angel  that  never  can  alter, 
Sooner  the  sun  in  liis  motion  would  falter. 


ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD  ENGLISH 
SONG. 

Tune — "  John  Anderson  my  jo." 

How  cruel  are  the  parents 

Who  riches  only  prize, 
And  to  the.  wealthy  booby. 

Poor  woman  sacrifice. 
Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter 

I  las  but  a  choice  of  strife  ; 
To  shun  a  tyrant  father's  hate, 

Become  a  wretched  will'. 

The  ravening  hawk  pursuing, 
The  trembling  dove  thus  Hies, 

To  shun  impelling  ruin 
A  while  her  pinions  tries, 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


103 


Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retreat, 
She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer, 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet. 


SONG. 
Tune—"  Deil  tak  the  Wars." 


Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion, 

Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride : 
But  when  compar'd  with  real  passion, 
Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 
What  arc  the  showy  treasures? 
What  are  the  noisy  pleasures  ? 

The  gay,  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art : 
The  polish'd  jewel's  blaze 
May  draw  the  wond'ring  gaze, 
And  courtly  grandeur  bright 
The  fancy  may  delight, 

But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  heart. 


But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris, 

In  simplicity's  array ; 
Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower  is, 
Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day. 
O  then,  the  heart  alarming, 
And  all  resistless  charming, 
In    Love's  delightful   fetters  she  chains  the 
willing  soul ! 
Ambition  would  disown 
The  world's  imperial  crown 
Even  Avarice  would  deny 
His  worshipp'd  deity, 
And  feel  thro'  every  vein  Love's  raptures  roll. 


SONG. 


Tone — This  is  no  my  ain  House. 


0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 
■     Fair  tho'  the  lassie  be ; 
0  weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie, 
Kind  love  is  in  her  e'e. 

t  see  a  form,  I  see  a  face, 
Ye  weel  may  wi'  the  fairest  place : 
It  wants,  to  me,  the  witching  grace, 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'e. 
O  this  is  no,  && 


She's  bonnie,  blooming,  straight,  and  tall 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall ; 
And  ay  it  charms  my  very  said, 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'e. 
O  this  is  no,  kc. 


A  thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 
To  steal  a  blink,  by  a'  unseen ; 
But  gleg  as  light  are  lovers'  een, 
When  kind  love  is  in  the  o'e, 
O  this  is  no,  &c. 


I  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks, 
It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks ; 
But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  e'e. 
O  this  is  no,  &c. 


TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 


SCOTTISH    SONG. 

Now  spring  has  clad  the  groves  in  green, 

And  strew'd  the  lea  wr  flowers  ; 
The  furrow'd,  waving  corn  is  seen 

Rejoice  in  fostering  showers ; 
While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 

Their  sorrows  to  forego, 
O  why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 

The  weary  steps  of  wo ! 

The  trout  within  yon  wimplin  burn 

Glides  swift,  a  silver  dart, 
And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn 

Defies  the  angler's  art : 
My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream, 

That  wanton  trout  was  I ; 
But  love,  wi'  unrelenting  beam, 

Has  scorch'd  my  fountains  dry. 

The  little  flow'ret's  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliff"  that  grows, 
Which,  save  the  linnet's  flight,  I  wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows, 
Was  mine ;  till  love  has  o'er  me  past, 

And  blighted  a'  my  bloom, 
And  now  beneath  the  withering  blast 

My  youth  and  joys  consume. 

The  waken'd  lav'rock  warbling  springs, 

And  climbs  the  early  sky, 
Winnowing  blithe  her  dewy  wings 

In  morning's  rosy  eye  ; 
As  little  reckt  I  sorrow's  power, 

Until  the  flowery  snare 
O'  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour 

Made  me  the  thrall  o'  care. 


104 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


O  had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows, 

Or  Afric\s  burning1  zone, 
Wi'  man  and  nature  leagu'd  my  foes, 

So  l"eggy  ne'er  I'd  known? 
The  wrcirli  whase  doomis,  " hope  nao  mair," 

What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell! 
Within  whase  bosom,  save  despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


SCOTTISH  SONG. 


O  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier, 

That  blooms  sae  far  frac  haunt  o'  man ; 
And  bonnie  she,  and  ah,  how  dear ! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e'enin  sun. 


Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew, 

How  pure  amang  the  leaves  sae  green  ; 

But  purer  was  the  lover's  vow 

They  witness'd  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower, 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sweet  and  fair ! 

But  love  is  far  a  sweeter  flower 
Amid  life's  thorny  path  o'  care. 

The  pathless  wild,  and  wimpling  burn, 
Wi'  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine  ; 

And  I,  the  world,  nor  wish,  nor  scorn, 
Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign. 


WRITTEN  on  a  blank  leaf  of  a  copy  of  hi* 
Poems  presented  to  a  Lady,  whom  he  fiad  often 
celebrated  under  the  name  of  Chloris. 

Tis  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young,  fair  Friend, 

Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 
Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 

The  moralizing  muse. 

Since,  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms, 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu, 
(A  world  'gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few. 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o'ercast, 

Chill  came  the  tempest's  lower  : 
(And  ne'er  misfortune's  eastern  blast 

Did  nip  a  fairer  flower.) 

Since  life's  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  more, 

Still  much  is  left  behind  ; 
Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store, 

The  comforts  of  the  mind! 


Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow, 
On  conscious  honour's  part ; 

And,  dearest  gift  of  heaven  below 
Thine  friendship's  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refin'd  of  sense  and  taste, 
With  every  muse  to  rove  : 

And  doubly  wero  the  poet  blest 
These  joys  could  he  improve. 


ENGLISH  SONG. 

Tune — "  Let  me  in  this  ae  night. 

Fori.ohn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I  wander  here 
Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe 
At  which  I  most  repine,  love. 


O  wert  thou,  lone,  but  near  me, 
But  near,  near,  near  me; 
How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheering, 
And  mingle  sig/is  with  mine,  love. 

Around  me  scowls  a  wintry  sky, 
That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy ; 
And  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  1, 
Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  love. 
O  wert,  Sec. 

Cold,  alter'd  friendship's  cruel  part, 
To  poison  fortune's  ruthless  dart- 
Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart, 
And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 
O  wcrt,  &c. 


But  dreary  tho'  the  moments  fleet, 
O  let  me  think  wc  yet  shall  meet! 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love. 
O  wert,  Sec. 


SCOTTISH  BALLAD. 
Tune— "The  Lothian  Lassie." 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang 
glen, 
And  sair  wi'  his  love  he  did  deave  me  ; 
I  said  there  was  naetiiingl  hated  like  men, 
Tho  deuce  gao  wi'm,  to  believe  me,  believe 

me, 
The  deuce  gao  wi'm,  to  believe  me 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


105 


He  spak  o'  tho  darts  in  my  bonnie  black  e'en,1 
And  vow'd  for  my  love  he  was  dying  ; 

I  said  he  might  die  when  he  liked,  for  Jean, 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying, 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying  ! 

A  wcel-stocked  mailen,  himsel  for  the  laird, 
And  marriage  aft-hand,  were  his  proffers : 

I  never  loot  on  that  I  kenn'd  it,  or  car'd, 
But  thought  I  might  hao  waur  offers,  waur 

offers, 
But  thaught  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ?  in  a  fortnight  or  less, 
The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her  ! 

He  up  the  lang  loan  to  my  black  cousin  Bess, 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad !  I  could  bear  her, 

could  bear  her, 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  !  I  could  bear  her. 

But  a'  the  niest  week  as  I  fretted  wi'  care, 
I  gafcd  to  the  tryste  o'  Dalgarnock, 

And  wha  but  my  fine  fickle  lover  was  there, 
I  glowr'd  as  I'd  seen  a  warlockja  warlock, 
I  glowr'd  as  I'd  seen  a  warlockw 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him  a  blink, 
Lest  neebors  might  say  I  was  saucy  ; 

My  wooer  he  caper'd  as  he'd  been  in  drink, 
And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie, 
And  vow'd  I  was  bis  dear  lassie. 

I  spier'd  for  my  cousin  fu'  couthy  and  sweet, 

Gin  she  had  recover'd  her  hearin, 
And  how  her  new  shoon  fit  her  auld  shachl't 
feet, 
But,  heavens !   how  he   fell  a  swearin,  a 

swearin, 
But  heavens  !  how  he  fell  a  swearin. 

He  begged,  for  Gudesake !  I  wad  be  his  wife, 
Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi'  sorrow : 

So  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 
I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-mor- 
row, 
I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 


FRAGMENT. 

Tune— "Tho  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover, 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ! 
Why,  why  undeceive  him, 

And  give  all  his  hopes  the  lie  ? 

O  why,  while  fancy,  raptur'd,  slumbers, 
Chloris,  Chloris  all  the  theme  ; 

Why,  why  wouldst  thou  cruel, 
Wake  thy  lover  from  his  dream  ? 
H2 


HEY  FOR  A  LASS  WI'  A  TOCHER. 

Tune — "  Balinamona  ora." 

Awa  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  beauty's  alarms, 
The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp   in  your 

arms: 
O,  gie  me  tho  lass  that  has  acres  o'  charms, 
O,  gie  mo  the  lass  wi'  the  weel-stockit  farms. 


Then  hey,  for  a  lass  wi?  a  loclier,  then  hey  for 

a  lass  wV  a  tocher, 
TJien  hey,  for  a  lass  to'  a  tocher  ;  the  nice 

yellow  guineas  for  me. 

Your  beauty's  a  flower,  in  tho  morning  that 

blows, 
And  withers  the  faster,  the  faster  it  grows  ; 
But  the  rapturous  charm  o'  the  bonnie  green 

knowes, 
Ek  spring  they're  new  deckit  wi'  bonnie  white 

yowes. 
Then  hey,  Sec. 

And  e'en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has 
blest,  [sest ; 

The  brightest  o'  beauty  may  cloy,  when  pos- 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi'  Geordie  im- 
prest, 

The  langer  ye  hae  them — 'the  mair  they're 
carest. 
Then  hey,  &c. 


SONG. 

Tune — "  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
hiney." 


Here's  a  health  to  ant  I  fo'e  dear, 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  We  dear 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy  ! 

Altho'  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Altho'  even  hope  is  denied  ; 
'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside — Jessy ! 
Here's  a  health,  See. 

I  mourn  thro'  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 
As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms ; 

But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slumber, 
For  then  I  am  lockt  in  thy  arms — Jessy ! 
Here's  a  health,  Sec. 


106 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 
I  guess  by  the  love-rolling  e'e  ; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession 

'Gainst  fortune's  fell  cruel  decree — Jessy  ! 
Here's  a  health,  Sec. 


SONG. 

Tune — "  Rothcrmurchies's  Rant." 


Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 
I    ystaH,  Dt  von,  winding  Devon, 

7/7,7  thou  lay  that  frown  aside, 
And  smile  as  thou  were  wont  to  do  ? 

Fltl  well  thou  know'st  I  love  thee  dear, 
Couldsl  thou  to  malice  lend  an  car ! 
O,  did  not  love  exclaim,  "  Forbear, 
Nor  use  a  faithful  lover  so  ?" 
Fairest  maid,  kc. 

Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Those  wonted  smiles,  O,  let  me  share  ; 
And  by  thy  beauteous  self  I  swear, 
No  love  but  tliinc  my  heart  shall  know. 
Fairest  maid,  kc. 


THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go  to  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ? 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes, 
And  o'er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays, 
Come  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days, 
In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  Sec. 

While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 
The  little  birdies  blythly  sing, 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  kc. 

The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa's, 
The  foaming  stream  deep-roaring  fa's, 
O'er-hung  wi'  fragrant  spreading shaws, 
The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  Sec. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown'd  wi"  flowers, 
While  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 

And  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  Birks,  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  kr. 


Let  fortune's  irifts  at  random  flee, 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  fraeme, 
Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee, 
hi  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie  lassie,  kc. 


STAY,  MY  CHARMER,  CAN  YOU 
LEAVE  ME  ? 

Tune—"  An  Gille  dubh  ciar-dhubh." 

Stay,  my  charmer,  can  you  leave  me  ? 

Cruel,  cruel  to  deceive  me  ! 

Well  you  know  how  much  you  grieve  me  ; 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go? 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go? 

By  my  love  so  ill  requited  ; 

By  the  faith  yon  fondly  plighted  ;        * 

By  the  pffl^s  of  lovers  slighted  ; 

Do  uotplfi  not  leave  me  so  ! 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me  so  ! 


STRATHALLAN'S  LAMENT. 

Thickest  night  o'erhang  my  dwelling 
Howling  tempests  o'er  me  rave! 

Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling, 
Still  surround  my  lonely  cave  ! 

Crystal  streamlets,  gently  flowing 
Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 

Western  breezes,  softly  blowing, 
Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaped, 
Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 

Honour's  war  we  strongly  waged, 
But  the  heavens  deny'd  success. 

Ruin's  wheel  has  driven  o'er  us, 
Not  a  hope  that  dare  attend, 

The  wide  world  is  all  before  us — 
But  a  world  without  a  friend  ! 


THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROVER 

Tune—"  Morag." 

Loun  blaw  the  frosty  breezes, 
The  snaws  the  mountains  cover; 

Like  winter  on  nie  seizes, 

Since  my  young  Highland  Rover 
Far  wanders  nations  over. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


107 


Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  stray, 
May  Heaven  be  liis  warden : 

Return  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey, 
And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon ! 


The  trees  now  naked  groaning, 
Shall  soon  wi'  leaves  be  hinging, 

The  birdies  dowie  moaning, 
Shall  a'  be  blithly  singing, 
And  every  flower  be  springing. 

Sac  I'll  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day, 
When  by  Ins  mighty  warden 

My  youth's  return'a  to  fair  Strathspey, 
And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon. 


RAVING  WINDS  AROUND  HER 
BLOWING. 

Tune — "  M'Grigor  of  Ruaro's  Lament.' 


Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 
Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strowing, 
By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 
Isabella  stray 'd  deploring. 
"  Farewell,  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure  ; 
Hail,  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheerless  night  that  knows  no  morrow. 

"  O'er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering, 
On  the  hopeless  future  pondering; 
Chilly  grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 
Fell  despair  my  fancy  seizes, 
Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 
Load  to  misery  most  distressing, 
O  how  gladly  I'd  resign  thee, 
And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee!" 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING  OCEAN. 

Tune — "Druimion  dubh." 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Which  divides  my  love  and  me  ; 

Wearying  Heaven  in  warm  devotion, 
For  his  weal  where'er  he  be. 

Hope  and  fear's  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  nature's  law  ; 

Whisp'ring  spirits  round  my  pillow 
Talk  of  him  that's  far  aw  a. 

Ye  whom  sorrow  never  wounded, 

Ye  who  never  shed  a  tear, 
Care-untroubled,  joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy  day  to  you  is  dear. 


Gentle  night,  do  thou  befriend  mo ; 

Downy  sleep,  the  curtain  draw  ; 
Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, 

Talk  of  him  that's  far  avva! 


BLITHE  WAS  SHE. 


Blifhe,  blithe  and  merry  teas  she, 
Blithe  in/s  she,  hut  and  hen: 

Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Em, 
And  blithe  in  Glenlurit  glen. 


By  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik, 

On  Yarrow  banks,  the  birken  shaw ; 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o'  Yarrow  ever  saw. 
Blithe,  Sec. 


Her  looks  were  like  a  flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  morn : 

She  tripped  by  the  banks  of  Ern, 
As  light's  a  bird  upon  a  thorn. 
Blithe,  Sec. 


Her  bonnie  face  it  was  as  meek 

As  ony  lamb  upon  a  lee ; 
The  evening  sun  was  ne'er  sae  sweet 

As  was  the  blink  o'  Phemie's  e'e. 
Blithe,  Sec. 


The  Highland  hills  I've  wander'd  wide, 
And  o'er  the  Lowlands  I  hae  been ; 

But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 
Blithe,  Sec. 


A  ROSE-BUD  BY  MY  EARLY  WALK. 


A  rose-bud  by  my  early  walk, 
A  down  a  corn-enclosed  bawk, 
Sae  gently  bent  its  thorny  stalk 
All  on  a  dewy  morning. 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  arc  fled, 
In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread, 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head, 
It  scents  the  early  morning. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 
A  little  linnet  fondly  prest, 
The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 
Sae  early  in  the  morning. 


103 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Sho  soon  shall  sec  her  tender  brood, 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood, 
Among  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew'd, 
Awake  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jeany  fair, 
On  trembling  string  or  vocal  air, 
Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 
That  tents  thy  early  morning. 

So  thou,  sweet  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day, 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 
That  watch'd  thy  early  morning. 


WHERE  BRAVING  ANGRY  WINTER'S 
STORMS. 

Tune— "N.  Gow's  Lamentation  for 
Abercairny." 

Where  braving  angry  winter's  storms, 

The  lofty  Ochils  rise, 
Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy's  charms 

First  blest  my  wondering  eyes. 
As  one  by  whom  some  savage  stream, 

A  lonely  gem  surveys, 
Astonished,  doubly  marks  its  beam, 

Willi  art's  most  polish'd  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild,  sequester 'd  shade, 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour, 
Where  Peggy's  charms  I  first  survey'd, 

When  first  I  felt  their  pow'r ! 
The  tyrant  death  with  grim  control 

May  seize  my  fleeting  breath ; 
But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 

Must  be  a  stronger  death. 


TIBBIE,  I  HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY. 

Tune — "  Invercald's  Reel." 


O  Tibbie,  I  hat  seen  the  day, 
Ye  would  nae  been  sae  shy ; 

For  laik  o'  gear  ye  lightly  me, 
But,  troulh,  I  care  na  by. 

Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  moor, 
Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure  : 
Ye  geek  at  mo  because  I'm  poor, 
But  feint  a  hair  care  I. 
O  Tibbie,  I  hae,  kc. 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think. 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o'  clink, 


That  ye  can  please  me  at  a  wink, 
Whene'er  ye  like  to  try. 
O  Tibbie,  I  lute,  kc. 


But  sorrow  tak  him  that's  sae  mean, 
Altho'  his  pouch  o'  coin  were  clean, 
Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 
0  Tibbie,  I  hae,  kc. 

Altho'  a  lad  were  e'er  sae  smart 
If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt, 
Ye'll  cast  your  head  anither  airt, 
And  answer  him  fu'  dry. 
O  Tibbie,  I  liae,  Sec. 


But  if  he  hae  (he  name  o'  gear, 
Ye'll  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier, 
Tho'  hardly  he  for  sense  or  lear, 
Be  better  than  the  kye. 
O  Tibbie,  I  hae,  kc. 


But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice, 
Your  daddie's  gear  maks  you  sae  nice : 
The  deil  a  ane  wad  spier  your  price, 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 
O  Tibbie,  I  lute,  kc. 


There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park, 
I  would  na  gie  her  in  her  sark, 
For  thee  wi'  a'  thy  thousand  mark : 
Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 
O  Tibbie,  I  hae,  kc. 


CLARINDA. 


Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 
The  measur'd  time  is  run  ! 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole, 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 
Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie ; 

Depriv'd  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 
The  sun  of  all  his  joy. 


Wo  part — but  by  these  precious  drops 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes! 
N<>  olhcr  light  shall  guide  my  steps 
Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 
I  Fas  blest  my  glorious  day  : 

And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 
My  worship  to  its  ray  ? 


BURNS'  POEMS 


109 


THE  DAY  RETURNS,  MY  BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune — "  Seventh  of  November." 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet, 
Tho'  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil'd, 

Ne'er  summer-sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 
Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  line ; 
Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  globes, 

Heaven  gave  me  more — it  made  thee  mine. 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give  ; 
While  joys  above,  my  mind  can  move, 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I  live  ! 
When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part ; 
The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss, — it  breaks  my  heart. 


THE  LAZY  MIST. 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hill, 

Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark  winding  rill ; 

How  languid  the  scenes,  late  so  sprightly,  ap- 
pear 

As  autumn  to  winter  resigns  the  pale  year ! 

The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows  are 
brown, 

And  all  the  gay  foppery  of  summer  is  flown ; 

Apart  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me  muse, 

How  quick  time  is  flying,  how  keen  fate  pur- 
sues; 

How  long  I  have  liv'd — but  how  much  liv'd 
in  vain : 

How  little  of  life's  scanty  span  may  remain  : 

What  aspects,  old  Time,  in  his  progress,  has 
worn ; 

What  tics,  cruel  fate  in  my  bosom  has  torn. 

How  foolish,  or  worse,  till  our  summit  is 
gain'd ! 

And  downward,  how  weaken'd,  howdarken'd, 
how  pain'd ! 

This  life's  not  worth  having  with  all  it  can 
give, 

For  something  beyond  it  poor  man  sure  must 
live. 


O,  WERE  I  ON  PARNASSUS'  HILL ! 
Tune—"  My  love  is  lost  to  me." 


O,  were  I  on  Parnassus'  hill ! 
Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill ; 


That  I  might  catch  poetic  skill, 
To  sing;  how  dear  I  love  thee. 

But  Nitli  maun  be  my  muse's  well, 

My  muse  maun  be  thy  bonnie  sol ; 

On  Corsincon  I'll  glowr  and  spell, 
And  write  how  dear  I  love  thee. 


Then  como,  sweet  muse,  inspire  my  lay ! 
For  a'  the  loe-lang  simmer's  day, 
I  coudna  sing,  I  coudna  say, 

How  much,  how  dear  I  love  thee. 
I  see  thee  dancing  o'er  the  green, 
Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sac  clean, 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een — 

By  heaven  and  earth  I  love  thee  1 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 
The  thoughts  o'  thee  my  breast  inflame ; 
And  ay  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name, 

I  only  live  to  love  thee. 
Tho'I  were  doom'd  to  wander  on, 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 
Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run  ; 

Till  then — and  then  I  love  thee. 


I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 


Tune— "Miss  Admiral  Gordon's  Strathspey." 


Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  fives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm. the  air  : 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs, 

By  fountain,  shavv,  or  green, 
There's  not  a  boimie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


THE  BRAES  0'  BALLOCHMYLE. 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 
The  flowers  decay'd  on  Catrine  lee, 

Nae  lav'rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 
But  nature  sicken'd  on  the  e'e. 


110 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Thro'  faded  grove  Maria  sang, 
I  [crsel  in  beauty's  bloom  the  while, 

And  ay  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang, 
Fare wocl the  braeso'  Ballochmyle. 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  yc  flowers, 

Again  ye'll  flourish  fresh  and  fair; 
Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  with 'ring  bowers, 

Again  ye'll  charm  the  vocal  air. 
But  here,  alas!  for  me  nac  mair 

Shall  birdie  charm,  or  floweret  smile; 
Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 

Fareweeljfarcwcel !  sweet  Ballochmyle. 


WILLIE  BREW'D  A  PECK  O'  MAUT. 

O,  willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut," 
And  Rob  and  Allan  came  to  see ; 

Three  blither  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night, 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christendie. 

We  are  nafou,  we're  na  ihalfou, 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e; 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw 
And  ay  ice'll  taste  the  barley  bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
Three  merry  boys  I  trow  are  we ; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been, 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be ! 
Il'e  are  nafou,  Sec. 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 
That's  hlinkin  in  the  lift  sac  hie ; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame, 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she'll  wait  a  wee ! 
We  are  naefou,  &c. 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 

A  cuckold,  coward  loon  is  he ! 
Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa', 

lie  is  the  king  amang  us  tliree  I 
We  are  nafou,  &c.° 


THE  BLUE-EYED  LASSIE. 

I  gaed  a  wacfu'  gate,  yestreen, 

A  <rate,  I  far,  I'll  dearly  rue; 
ny  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o'  bonnie  blue. 
'Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright ; 

I  let  lips  like  roses  wat  wi'  dew, 
Her  heaving  bosom,  lily-white; — 

it  was  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 


She  talk'd,  she  smil'd,  my  heart  she  wyl'd, 

She  charm 'd  my  soul  1  wist  na  how ; 
And  ay  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 

Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 
But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed ; 

She'll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow: 
Should  she  refuse,  111  lay  my  dead 

To  her  twa  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 


THE  BANKS  OF  NITH. 
Tune—"  Robie  Dona  Gorach." 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  sea, 

Where  royal  cities  stately  stand  ; 
But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith  to  me, 

Where  Commins  ance  had  high  command: 
When  shall  I  see  that  honour'd  land, 

That  winding  stream  I  love  so  dear ! 
Must  wayward  fortune's  adverse  hand 

For  ever,  ever  keep  me  here  ? 

How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales, 

Where  spreading  hawthorns  gay  ly  bloom ; 
How  sweetly  wind  thy  sloping  dales, 

Where  lambkins  wanton  thro'  the  broom  ! 
Tho'  wandering,  now,  must  be  my  doom, 

Far  from  thy  bonnie  banks  and  braes, 
May  there  my  latest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days  ! 


JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

A\  hen  we  were  first  acquenl  ; 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anilher: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John 

Rut  hand  and  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


TAM  GLEN. 

Ms  heart  is  a-breaking,  dearTitlie, 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len', 

To  anger  them  ■>'  is  a  pity ; 
But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tarn  Gleu  ? 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Ill 


I'm  thinkin,  wi'  sic  a  braw  fellow, 
In  poortith  I  might  male  a  fen' ; 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow, 
If  I  mauiina  marry  Tam  Glen  ? 


There's  Lowrio  the  laird  o'  Prummeller, 
"  Guid  day  to  you,  brute,"  he  comes  ben : 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o'  his  siller, 

But  when  will  ho  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ? 


My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me, 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men ; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me  ; 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen  ? 


My  daddio  says,  gin  I'll  forsake  him, 
He'll  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten : 

But,  if  it's  ordain'd  I  maun  tak  him, 
O  wha  will  I  get  but  Tam  Glen  ? 


Yestreen  at  the  Valentine's  dealing, 
My  heart  to  my  mou  gicd  a  sten ; 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  tlirice  it  was  written,  Tam  Glen ! 


The  last  Halloween  I  was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleevc,  as  ye  ken 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin, 
And  the  very  gray  breeks  o'  Tam  Glen ! 


Come  counsel,  dear  Tittie,  don't  tarry ; 

I'll  gie  you  my  bonnie  black  hen, 
Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 

The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 


MY  TOCHER'S  THE  JEWEL. 


O  MBIKIE  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  beauty, 

And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my  kin; 
But  little  thinks  my  luve  [  ken  brawlie, 

My  Tocher's  the  jewel  has  charms  for  him. 
It's  a'  for  the  apple  he'll  nourish  the  tree  ; 

It's  a'  for  the  hiney  he'll  cherish  the  bee  ; 
Mv  laddie's  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi'  the  siller, 

He  carina  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 


Your  proffer  o'  luve's  an  airl-pcnny, 

My  Tocher's  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy  ; 
But  an  ye  be  crafty,  I  am  cunnin, 

Sae  ye  wi'  anither  your  fortune  may  try. 
Yc'rc  like  to  the  trimmer  o'  yon  rotten  wood, 

Ye'rc  like  to  the  bark  o'  you  rotten  tree, 
Ye'll  slip  fYae  mo  like  a  knotless  thread, 

And  ye'll  crack  your  credit  wi'  mae  nor  me. 


THEN  GUIDWIFE  COUNT  THE 
LAWIN, 

Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk's  the  night, 
But  we'll  ne'er  stray  for  fautc  o'  light, 
For  ale  and  brandy's  stars  and  moon, 
And  bluid-red  wine's  the  rysin  sun. 

Then  guidwifc  count  the  lawin,  the  lawin,  tha 

law  in, 
Then  guid  wife  count  the  lawin,  and  bring  a 

coggie  mair. 

There's  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen, 
And  semple-folk  maun  fecht  and  fen' ; 
But  here  we're  a'  in  ae  accord, 
For  ilka  man  that's  drunk's  a  lord. 

Then  gudewife  count,  Sec. 

My  coggie  is  a  haly  pool, 

That  heals  the  wounds  o'  care  and  dool ; 

And  pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout, 

An'  ye  drink  it  a'  ye'll  find  him  out. 

Then  guidwife  count,  &c. 


WHAT  CAN  A  YOUNG  LASSIE  DO 
WI'  AN  AULD  MAN? 

What  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall  a  young 
lassie, 
What  can  a  young  lassie   do  wi'  an  auld 
man  ? 
Bad  luck  on   the   pennie   that   tempted    my 
minnie 
To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller  an'  Ian' ! 
Bad  luck  on  the  pennie,  &c. 

He's  always  compleenin  frae  mornin  to  e'enin, 
He  hosts  and  he  hirples  the  weary  day  lang  ; 

He's  doylt  and  he's  dozen,  his  bluid  it  is  fro- 
frozen, 
O,  deary's  the  night  wi'  a  crazy  auld  man  I 

lie  hums  and  he  hankers,  he  frets  and  he  can- 
kers, 
I  never  can  please  him,  do  a'  that  I  can ; 
He's  peevish  and  jealous  of  a'  the  young  fel- 
lows : 
O,  dool  on  the  day  I  met  wi'  an  auld  man  ! 

My  auld  auntie  Katie  upon  me  taks  pity, 

I'll  do  my  endeavour  to  follow  her  plan  ; 
I'll  cross  him,  and  wrack  him,  until  I  heart- 
break him, 
And  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a  new 
pan. 


112 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


THE  BONNIE  WEE  THING. 


Bonnie  wee  thin"-,  canine  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  W*st  thou  mine, 
wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 
Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 

Wishfully  I  look  and  languish 
In  that  bonnie  face  o'  thine  ; 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguish, 
Lest  my  wee  tiling  be  na  mine. 

Wit,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beauty, 

In  ae  constellation  shine ; 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty, 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine ! 
Bonnie  wee,  Sec. 


O,  FOR  ANE  AND  TWENTY,  TAM  ! 

Tune—"  The  Moudiewort." 

An  O,for  ane  and  ticenty,  Tam  ! 

An  hey,  sweet  ane  and  twenty,  Tarn  ! 
ril  learn  my  kin  a  ratllin  sang, 

An  I  saw  ane  and  twenty,  Tarn. 

They  snool  me  sair,  and  haud  me  down, 
And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,  Tarn  1 

But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel  rc-un', 
And  then  comes  ane  and  twenty,  Tam  ! 
An  O,for  ane,  Sec. 

A  gleib  o'  Ian',  a  claut  o'  gear, 
Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam ; 

At  kith  or  kin  I  needna  spier, 
An  I  saw  ane  and  twenty,  Tam ! 
An  O,for  ane,  Sec. 

They'll  hae  me  wed  a  wealthy  coof, 
Tho'  I  rnysel'  hae  plenty,  Tam ; 

But  hcar'st  thou,  laddie,  there's  my  loof, 
I'm  thine  at  ane  and  twenty,  Tam ! 
An  O,  for  ane,  Sec. 


BESS  AND  HER  SPINNING  WHEEL. 

O  i.eeze  me  on  my  spinning  wheel, 
O  leeze  me  on  my  rock  and  reel ; 
Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien, 
And  haps  me  fiel  and  warm  at  e'en  ! 
[11  set  me  down  and  sing  and  spin, 
While  laigh  descends  the  simmer  sun, 
Blest  wi'  content,  and  milk  and  meal — 
0  Leeze  me  on  my  spinning"  wheel. 


On  ilka  hand  the  bumics  trot. 
And  meet  below  my  theckit  cot ; 
The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite, 
Alike  to  screen  the  birdie's  nest, 
And  little  fishes'  caller  rest : 
The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  bieP, 
Where  blithe  I  turn  my  spinning  wheel. 


On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats  wail, 
And  echo  cons  thee  doolfu'  tale  ; 
The  lintwhites  in  the  hazel  braes, 
Delighted,  rival  ither's  lays  : 
The  craik  amang  the  claver  hay, 
Tho  paitrick  whirrin  o'er  the  ley, 
The  swallow  jinkin  round  my  shiel, 
Amuse  me  at  my  spinning  wheel. 


Wi'  sma'  to  sell,  and  less  to  buy, 
Aboon  distress,  below  envy, 
O  wha  wad  leave  this  humble  state, 
For  a'  the  pride  of  a'  the  great  ? 
Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys, 
Amid  their  cumbrous,  dinsome  joys, 
Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinning  wheel  ? 


COUNTRY  LASSIE. 


In  simmor  when  the  hay  was  mawn, 

And  corn  wav'd  green  in  ilka  field, 
While  claver  blooms  white  o'er  the  lea, 

And  roses  blaw  in  ilka  bield  ; 
Blithe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel, 

Says,  I'll  be  wed,  come  o't  what  will ; 
Out  spak  a  dame  in  wrinkled  eild, 

"  O'  guid  advisement  comes  nac  ill. 


"  It's  yc  hae  wooers  mony  ane, 

And  lassie,  ye're  but  young  ye  ken ; 
Then  wait  a  wee,  and  cannie  wale, 

A  routine  but,  a  routine  ben  : 
There's  Johnie  o'  the  Buskie-glcn, 

Fu'  is  his  barn,  fu'  is  his  byre  ; 
Tak  this  frae  me,  my  bonnie  hen, 

It's  plenty  beets  the  luver's  fire." 


For  Johnie  o'  the  Buskie-glen, 

I  dinna  care  a  single  flie  ; 
He  lo'ea  sac  well  his  craps  and  kye, 

Ho  h;is  nac  luve  to  spare  for  mo  : 
But  blithe's  the  blink  o'  Robie'se'e, 

And  weel  I  wat  he  lo'es  me  dear  : 
Ac  blink  o'  him  I  wad  na  gie 

For  Buskie-glen  and  a'  his  gear. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


113 


"  O  thoughtless  lassio,  life's  a  faught ; 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair ; 
But  ay  fix'  han't  is  feehlin  best, 

A  hungry  care's  an  unco  care: 
But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare, 

An'  will'ii'  folk  maun  hae  their  will; 
Sync  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair, 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yihV 

O,  gear  will  buy  mo  rigs  o'  land, 

And  <^ear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye ; 
But  the  tender  heart  o'  leesome  luvc, 

The  gowd  and  siller  carina  buy  : 
We  may  be  poor — Robie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luvc  lays  on; 
Content  and  luve  brings  peace  and  joy, 

What  mair  hae  queens  upon  a  throne  ? 


FAIR  ELIZA. 


A    GAELIC    AIR. 

Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part, 
Rew  on  thy  despairing  lover  ! 

Canst  thou  break  his  faithfu'  heart  ? 
Turn  again,  thou  fair  Eliza ; 

If  to  love  thy  heart  denies, 
For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 

Under  friendship's  kind  disguise 

Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I  offended? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee  : 
Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever, 

Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ? 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom, 

Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe  : 
Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom, 

In  the  pride  o'  sinny  noon ; 
Not  the  little  sporting  fairy, 

All  beneath  the  simmer  moon ; 
Not  the  poet  in  the  moment 

Fancy  lightens  on  his  e'e, 
Kens  the  pleasure,  feels  the  rapture, 

That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 


THE  POSIE. 

O  luve  will  venture  in,  where  it  daur  na  weel 

be  seen, 
0  luve  will  venture  in,  where  wisdom  ance 

has  been ; 
T 


But  I   will  down  yon  river  rove,  amang  the 
wood  sae  green, 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  posio  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu',  the  firstling  o1  the 

year, 
And  I  will  pu'  the  pink,  the  emblem  o'  my 

dear, 
For  she's  the  pink  o'  womankind,  and  blooms 

without  a  peer  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  pu'  the  budding  rose  when  riicebus  peeps 
in  view, 

For  it's  like  a  baumy  kiss  o'  her  sweet  bonnie 
mou ; 

The  hyacinth  's  for  constancy  wi'  its  unchang- 
ing blue, 
And  a1  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair, 

And   in   her  lovely  bosom  I'll  place  the  lily 

there ; 
The  daisy  's  for  simplicity  and  unaffected  air 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu',  wi'  its  locks  o'  siller 

gray, 
Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  o' 

day, 
But  the  songster's  nest  witlun  the  bush  I  win- 

na  tak  away ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  woodbine  I  will  pu'  when  the  e'ening  star 

is  near, 
And  the  diamond-draps   o'  dew  shall  be  her 

een  sae  clear : 
The  violet  's  for  modesty  which  weel  she  fa's 

to  wear, 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  tie  the  posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band  of 

luve, 
And  FU  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I'll  swear  by 

a'  above, 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life  the  band  shall 

ne'er  remuve, 
And  this  will  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 


THE  BANKS  O'  DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresli  and  fair ; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care ! 
Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn : 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 

Departed  never  to  return. 


114 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Oft  hae  T  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  sec  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sac  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  hear!  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tn  e  : 
But  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

Bui  ah  1  ho  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


SONG. 

Tune — "  Catharine  Ogie." 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  ran  ye  Illume  sae  fair, 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  1 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fausc  luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 
For  sac  I  sat,  and  sae  1  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  wood-bine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  san^  o'  its  love, 

And  sae  did  1  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree, 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


SIC  A  WIFE  AS  WILLIE  HAD. 

Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 
The  spot  they  ca'dit  Linkumdoddie, 

Willie  was  a  wabster  guid, 

Cou'd  sto.vn  a  clue  wi'  ony  bodie ; 

He  had  a  wife  was  dour  and  din, 
O  Tinkler  Madgic  was  her  mither; 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 

She  has  an  e'e,  she  has  but  ane, 
T!i'   cat  lias  twa  the  very  colour; 

Five  rusty  teeth,  forbyea  stump, 

A  clapper  tongue  wad  deave  a  miller; 

A  whisken  beard  about  her  mou, 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither; 
Sic  a  wife,  Sec. 


She's  bow-hongh'd,  she's  hein-shinn'd, 
Ae  limpin  leg  a  hand-breed  shorter ; 

She  's  twisted  right,  she  's  twisted  left, 
To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter: 

She  has  a  hump  upon  her  breast, 

The  twin  o'  that  upon  her  shouthor; 
Sic  a  wife,  &c 

Auld  baudrans  by  the  ingle  sits, 
An'  wi'  her  loof  her  face  a-washin; 

But  Willie's  wife  is  nae  sae  trig, 

She  dights  her  grunzie  wi'  a  hushionj 

Her  walie  nieves  like  midden-creels, 
Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan-Water  : 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 
I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 


GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 


Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December ! 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care ; 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remember, 

Partinir  wi'  Nancy,  Oh  !  ne'er  to  meet  mair. 
Fond  lovers'  parting  is  sweet  painful  pleasure, 

Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting  hour; 
But  the  dire  feeling,  O  farewell  for  i 

Is  anguish  untningled  and  agony  pure. 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 
Till  the  last  leaf  o'  the  summer  is  flown, 

Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom, 
Since  my  last  hope  and  last  comfort  is  gone ; 

Still  as  1  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 
Still  shall  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care; 

For  sad   was  the   parting  thou  makes  me  re- 
member, 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  Oh,  ne'er  to  meet  mair. 


WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE? 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 
O  wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul, 
And  that  's  the  love  I  bear  thee ! 

I  swear  and  vow,  that  only  thou 
Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

(  >nl\-  thou,  1  swear  and  vow, 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 


Lassie,  sav  thou  lo'cs  me; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain, 
Say  na  thou'lt  refuse  me  : 

Lf  it  wiiuia,  canna  be, 


BURNS'  TOEMS. 


115 


Thou  for  thine  may  chooso  me  ; 
Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die, 

Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  mo. 


SHE'S  FAIR  AND  FAUSE. 


She's  fair  and  fausc  that  causes  my  smart, 

1  lo'ed  her  meikle  and  lang ; 
She's  broken  her  vow,  she's  broken  my  heart, 

And  I  may  e'en  gae  hang. 
A  coof  cam  in  wi'  rowth  o'  gear, 
And  I  hae  tint  my  dearest  dear, 
But  woman  is  but  warld's  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonnie  lass  gang. 

Whoe'er  ye  be  that  woman  love, 

To  this  be  never  blind, 
Nae  ferlie  'tis  tho'  fickle  she  prove, 

A  woman  has't  by  kind : 
O  woman  lovely,  woman  fair  ! 
An  angel's  form  's  faun  to  thy  share, 
'Twad  been  o'er  meikle  to  gien  thee  mair, 

I  mean  an  angel  mind. 


AFTON  WATER. 

r 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes, 
Flow  gently,  111  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,    sweet   Afton,   disturb  not  her 

dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  tliro' 

the  glen, 
Ye    wild   wliistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny 

den, 
Thou  green-crested  lap-wing,  thy  screaming 

forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,   sweet  Afton,   thy   neighbouring 

hills, 
Far  mark'd  wi'  the  courses  of  clear,  winding 

rills  ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks   and   green  valleys 

below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses 

blew ; 
There,  oft,  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and 

mp 


Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lofty  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides  ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  ieet  lave, 
As  gathering    sweet  flowerets  she  stems  thy 
clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 

braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays  ; 
My  Mary  's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet   Afton,  disturb   not   her 

dream. 


BONNIE  BELL. 

The  smiling  spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 

And  surly  winter  grimly  flies : 
Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters, 

And  bonnie  blue  are  the  sunny  skies ; 
Fresh    o'er    the    mountains  breaks  forth  the 
morning, 

The  ev'ning  gilds  the  ocean's  swell ; 
All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun's  returning 

And  I  rejoice  in  my  bonnie  Bell. 

The  flowery  spring  leads  sunny  summer, 

And  yellow  autumn  presses  near, 
Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  winter, 

Till  smiling  spring  again  appear. 
Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing, 

Old  Time  and  nature  their  changes  tell, 
But  never  ranging,  still  unchanging 

I  adore  my  bonnie  Bell. 


THE  GALLANT  WEAVER. 


Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea, 
By  mony  a  flow'r,  and  spreading  tree, 
There  lives  a  lad,  the  lad  for  me, 
He  is  a  gallant  weaver. 

Oh  I  had  wooers  aught  or  nine, 
They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine ; 
And  I  was  fear'd  my  heart  would  tine, 
And  I  gied  it  to  the  weaver. 

My  daddie  sign'd  my  tocher-band 
To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  land  ; 
But  to  my  heart  I'll  add  my  hand, 
And  gie  it  to  the  weaver. 

While  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers  ; 
While  bees  rejoice  in  opening  flowers  ; 
While  corn  grows  green  in  simmer  showers, 
I'll  love  my  gallant  weaver. 


116 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


LOUIS  WHAT  RECK  I  BY  THEE  ? 

Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee, 

Or  Geordie  on  his  ocean  ? 
Dyvor,  beggar  louns  to  me, 

1  reign  in  Jeanie's  bosom. 


Let  her  crown  my  love  Iior  law, 
And  in  her  breast  enthrone  me : 

Kings  and  nations,  swith  awa  ! 
Reif  randies,  I  disown  ye  ! 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  SOMEBODY. 


My  heart  is  sair,  I  dare  na  tell, 

My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody ; 
I  could  wake  a  winter  night 
For  the  sake  o'  somebody. 
Oh-hon  !  for  somebody  ! 
Oh-hey  !  for  somebody  ! 
I  could  range  the  world  around, 
For  the  sake  o1  somebody. 


Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love, 

O,  sweetly  smile  on  somebody  ! 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free, 
And  send  me  safe  my  somebody. 
Oh-hon  !  for  somebody  ! 
Oh-hey!  for  somebody  ! 
I  wad  do — what  wad  I  not  ? 
For  the  sake  of  somebody  ! 


THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 


The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see  ; 
For  e1en  and  morn  she  cries,  alas  ! 

And  ay  the  saut  tear  Wins  her  e'e  : 
Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day, 

A  waefu1  day  it  was  to  me  ; 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 

My  father  dear,  and  bretliren  three. 


Tluir  winding  sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 

Their  graves  arc  growing  green  to  see; 
And  by  them  lies  the  deares  I  lad 

That  ever  Most  m  woman's  e'e  ! 
.Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  i  rue!  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  1  trow  thou  bo  ; 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 

That  ne'er  did  wrong  to  thine  or  thee. 


A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE 
DEATH  OF  HER  SON. 

Tune — "  Finlayston  House." 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 

And  pierc'd  my  darling's  heart : 
And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 

Life  can  to  mo  impart. 
By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops, 

In  dust  dishonour'd  laid  : 
So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes, 

My  age's  future  shade. 

The  mother-linnet  in  the  brake 

Bewails  her  ravish'd  young  ; 
So  I,  for  my  lost  darling's  sake, 

Lament  the  live-day  long. 
Death,  oft  I've  fear'd  thy  fatal  blow, 

Now  fond  1  bare  my  breast, 
O,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low 

With  liiiu  I  love,  at  rest  I 


O  MAY,  THY  MORN. 


O  May,  thy  morn  was  ne'er  sae  sweet, 
As  the  mirk  night o'  December; 

For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine, 
And  private  was  the  chamber: 

And  dear  was  she  I  dare  na  name, 
But  1  will  ay  remember. 
And  dear,  Sec. 


And  here's  to  them,  that,  like  oursel, 
Can  push  about  the  jorum ; 

And  here's  to  them  that  wish  us  wcel, 
May  a'  that's  guid  watch  o'er  them  ; 

And  here's  to  them,  we  dare  na  tell, 
The  dearest  o'  the  quorum. 
And  here's  to,  &cc. 


O,  WAT  YE  WHA'S  IN  YON  TOWN? 


O,  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town, 

'i  e  see  the  e'enin  sun  upon  ? 

The  fairest  dame  's  in  yon  town, 

That  e'enin  sun  is  shining  on. 

Now  haply  down  yon  gay  green  shaw, 
She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree : 

How  blest  ye  flow'rs  that  round  her  blaw, 
Ye  catch  the  glances  o'  her  e'e  ! 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


117 


How  blost  ye  birds  that  round  her  sing, 
And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year  1 

And  doubly  welcome  be  Ibe  spring, 
The  season  to  my  Lucy  dear. 

The  sun  blinks  blithe  on  yon  town, 
And  on  yon  bonnic  braes  of  Ayr  ; 

But  my  delight  in  yon  town, 
And  dearest  bliss,  is  Lucy  fair. 

Without  my  love,  not  a'  the  charms 
O'  Paradise  could  yield  ine  joy  ; 

But  gio  me  Lucy  in  my  anus, 

And  welcome  Lapland's  dreary  sky. 

My  cave  wad  be  a  lover's  bower, 
Tho'  raging  winter  rent  the  air ; 

And  she  a  lovely  little  flower, 
That  I  wad  tent  and  shelter  there. 

O,  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town, 

Yon  sinkin  sun's  gane  down  upon  ! 

A  fairer  than's  in  }ron  town, 

His  setting  beam  ne'er  shone  upon. 

If  angry  fate  is  sworn  my  foe, 

And  suffering  I  am  doom'd  to  bear ; 

I  careless  quit  aught  else  below, 
But  spare  me,  spare  me  Lucy  dear. 

For  while  life's  dearest  blood  is  warm, 
Ae  thought  frae  her  shall  ne'er  depart, 

And  she — as  fairest  is  her  form ! 
She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart. 


A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 


O,  my  hive's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June : 

O,  my  hive's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  hive  am  I : 
And  I  will  hive  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun : 

I  will  hive  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 


And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while  ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


A  VISION. 


As  I  stood  by  yon  rootless  tower, 

Where  the  wa'-tlowcr  scents  the  dewy  air, 
Where  the  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 

And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care. 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 
Tho  stars  they  shut  along  the  sky ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 
And  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply 

Tho  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruin'd  wa's, 

Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 
Whase  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa's. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing,  eerie  din ; 

Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift, 
Like  fortune's  favours,  tint  as  win. 


By  heedless  chance  I  turn'd  mine  eyes, 
And  by  the  moon-beam,  shook,  to  see 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 
Attir'd  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 


Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane, 
His  darin  look  had  daunted  me  : 

And  on  his  bonnet  grav'd  was  plain, 
The  sacred  posy — Libertie 1 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow, 

Might  rous'd  the  slumbering  dead  to  hear ; 

But  oh,  it  was  a  tale  of  wo, 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear ! 

He  sang  wi'  joy  his  former  day, 
He  weeping  wail'd  his  latter  times ; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, 
I  winna  ventur't  in  my  rhymes. 


COPY 


OF  A  POETICAL  ADDRESS 

TO    MR.  WILLIAM    TYTLER, 

With  the  present  of  the  Bard's  Picture. 

Revered  defender  of  beauteous  Stuart, 
Of  Stuart,  a  name  once  respected, 

A  name,  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a  true 
heart, 
But  now  'tis  despised  and  neglected. 


118 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Tho  something  like  moisture  conglobes  in  my 
eye, 
Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; 
A  poor  friendless  wand  'rer  may  well  claim  a 
sigh, 
Still  more,  if  that  wand'rer  were  royal. 

My    fathers    that    name   havo  rever'd  on  a 
throne ; 
My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 
Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degenerate 
son, 
That  name  should  he  scoflingly  slight  it. 

Still  in  prayers  for  K —  G —  I  most  heartily 
join, 
The  Q — ,  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry, 
Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of 
mine; 
Their  title's  avow'd  by  my  country. 

But  why  of  this  epocha  make  such  a  fuss, 

***** 
*         *         *         * 


But  loyalty  truce!  we're  on  dangerous  ground, 
■Who  knows  how  the  fashions  may  after? 

The  doctrine,  to-day,  that  is  loyalty  sound, 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a  halter. 

I  send  you  a  triflo,  a  head  of  a  bard, 

A  trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care; 
But  accept  it,  good  Sir,  as  a  mark  of  regard, 

Sincere  as  a  saint's  dying  prayer. 

Now  life's  chilly  evening  dim  shades  on  your 
eye, 
And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night ; 
But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds  the 
sky, 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  bright. 


CALEDONIA. 

Tune—"  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

There  was  once  a  day,  but  old  Time  then  was 
young, 
That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  her  line, 
From  some  of  your  northern  .Lilies  sprung, 
(Who    knows    not  that  brave   Caledonia's 
divine  ?) 
From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  domain, 
To  hunt,  or  to  pasture,  or  do  what  she 
would : 
Her  heavenly  relations  there  fixed  her  reign, 
Andpledg'd  her  their  godheads  to  warrant 
it  good. 


A  lambkin  in  peace,  but  a  lion  in  war, 

The  pride  other  kindred  the  heroine  grew: 
Her  grandsire,  old  Odin,  triumphantly  swore, 
"  Whoe'er  shall  provoke  thee,  th'  encounter 
shall  rue !" 
With  tillage  or  pasture  at  times  she  would 
sport, 
To  feed  her  fair  flocks  by  her  green  rust- 
ling corn  ? 
But  chiefly  the  woods  were  her  fav'rite  resort, 
Her  darling  amusement,  the  hounds  and  the 
horn. 


Long  quiet  she  reign'd  ;  till  thitherward  steers 

A  flight  of  bold  eagles  from  Adria's  strand  : 
Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years, 

They  darken 'd  the  air,  and  they  plunder'd 
the  land : 
Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror  their 
cry, 

They'd  conquer'd  and  ruin'd  a  world  beside ; 
She  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows  let  fly, 

The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they  died. 


The  fell    Harpy-raven   took  wing  from  the 
north, 
The  scourge  of  the  seas,  and  the  dread  of  the 
shore; 
The  wild  Scandinavian  boar  issu'd  forth 

To  wanton  in  carnage  and  wallow  in  gore : 
O'er  countries   and    kingdoms  the   fury   pre- 
vail'd, 
No  arts  could  appease  them,  no  arms  could 
repel ; 
But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assail'd, 
As  Largs  well  can   witness,  and  Loncartie 
tell. 


Tho  Chameleon-savage  disturb 'd  her  repose, 

With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion  and  strife, 
Provok'd  beyond  bearing,  at  last  she  arose, 

And  robb'd  him  at  once  of  his  hopes  and  his 
life : 
The  Anglian  lion,  the  terror  of  France, 

Oft  prowling,  ensanguin'd  the  Tweed's  sil- 
ver flood ; 
But,  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance, 

He  learned  to  fear  in  liis  own  native  wood. 


Thus  bold,  independent,  unconqucr'd,  and  free, 

Her  bright  course  of  glory  for  ever  shall  run, 
For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be; 

I'll  prove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  tho  sun; 
Rectangle-triangle,  tho  figure  we'll  choose, 

The  upright  is  Chance,  and  old  Time  is  the 
base; 
But  brave  Caledonia's  the  hypotenuse; 

Then  ergo,  she'll  match  them,  and  match 
them  alwavs. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


119 


THE  following  Poem  was  written  to  a  Gentle- 
man, who  had  sent  him  a  Newspaper,  and 
offered  to  continue  it  free  of  Expense. 

Kind  Sir,  I've  read  your  paper  through, 

And  faith,  to  me,  'twas  really  new  ! 

How  guessed  ye,  Sir,  what  maist  I  wanted  ? 

This  mony  a  day  I've  grain'd  and  gaunted, 

To  ken  what  French  mischief  was  brewin  ; 

Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutch  were  doin ; 

That  vile  doup-skelpcr,  Emperor  Joseph, 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off ; 

Or  how  the  collicshangie  works 

Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks  ; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt, 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  twalt : 

If  Denmark,  any  body  spak  o't ; 

Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack  o't ; 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were  hingin, 

How  libbet  Italy  was  singin  ; 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss, 

Were  sayin  or  takin  aught  amiss : 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame, 

In  Britain's  court  kept  up  the  game  : 

How  P&yal  Oeorge,  the  Lord  leuk  o'er  him ! 

Was  managing  St.  Stephen's  quorum  ; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livin, 

Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in  ; 

How  daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin, 

If  Warren  Hastings'  neck  was  yeukin  ; 

How  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  rax'd, 

Or  if  bare  a — s  yet  were  tax'd ; 

The  news  o'  princes,  dukes,  and  earls, 

Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  opera-girls  ; 

If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  W***s, 

Was  threshin  still  at  hizzies'  tails, 

Or  if  he  was  grown  oughtlins  douser, 

And  no  a  perfect  kintra  cooser, 

A'  this  and  mair  I  never  heard  of; 

And  but  for  you  I  might  despaired  of. 

So  gratefu',  back  your  news  I  send  you, 

And  pray,  a'  guid  things  may  attend  you. 

EUisland,  Monday  Morning,  1790. 


POEM  ON  PASTORAL  POETRY. 


Hail,  Poesie  '.  thou  Nymph  reserv'd  ! 

In  chase  o'  thee,  what  crowds  hae  swerv'd 

Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  enerv'd 

'Man:'-  heaps  o'  clavers; 
And  och  !  o'er  aft  thy  joes  hae  starv'd, 

Mid  a'  thy  favours ! 


Say,  Lassie,  why  thy  train  aiiwnn, 
While  loud  the  trump's  heroic  clang, 


And  sock  or  buskin  skelp  alang 

To  death  or  marriage  ; 
Scarce  ane  lias  tried  the  shepherd-sang 

But  wi'  miscarriage  ? 


In  Homer's  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives 
Eschylus'  pen  Will  Shakspcare  drives  ; 
Wee  Pope,  the  knurlin,  till  him  rives 

Horatian  fame  ; 
In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 

Even  Sappho's  flame. 


But  thee,  Theocritus,  wha  matches  ? 
They're  no  herd's  ballats,  Maro's  catches  : 
Squire  Pope  but  busks  his  skinklin  patches 

O'  heathen  tatters  : 
I  pass  by  hunders,  nameless  wretches, 

That  ape  their  betters. 


In  this  braw  age  o'  wit  and  lea. 

Will  nane  the  Shepherd's  whistle  mair 

Blaw  sweetly,  in  its  native  air 

And  rural  grace  ; 
And  wi'  the  far-fam'd  Grecian,  share 

A  rival  place  ? 


Yes  !  there  is  ane — a  Scottish  callan  ! 
There's  ane  ;  come  forrit,  honest  Allan  ! 
Thou  needna  jouk  behint  the  hallan, 

A  chiel  sae  clever ; 
The  teeth  o'  Time  may  gnaw  Tamtallan, 

But  thou 's  for  ever. 


Thou  paints  auld  nature  to  the  nines, 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines ; 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro'  myrtles  twines, 

Where  Philomel, 
While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines, 

Her  griefs  will  tell  I 


In  gowany  glens  thy  burnie  strays, 
Where  bonnie  lasses  bleach  their  claes  ; 
Or  trots  by  hazelly  shaws  and  braes, 

Wi'  hawthorns  gray, 
Where  blackbirds  join  the  shepherd's  lays 

At  close  o'  day. 


Thy  rural  loves  are  nature's  sel ; 

Nae  bombast  spates  o'  nonsense  swell ; 

Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  spell 

O'  witchin  love, 
That  charm  that  can  the  strongest  quell ; 

The  sternest  move. 


120 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF-MUIR, 

Between  the  Duko  of  Argyle  and  the  Earl  of  Mar. 

"  O  cam  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun, 
Or  herd  tie  sheep  \vi'  me,  man  ? 
Or  were  ye  at  the  sherra-muir, 

And  did  the  battle  see,  man  ?" 
I  saw  the  battle,  sair  and  tough, 
And  reckin-red  ran  mony  a  sheugh, 
My  heart,  for  fear,  gae  sough  for  sough, 
To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  cluds,= 
O'  clans  frae  woods,  in  tartan  duds, 
Wiia  glaum 'd  at  kingdoms  tliree,  man. 


The  red-coat  lads  wi'  black  cockades 
To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man ; 

They  rush'd  and  push'd,  and  blude  outo-ush'd, 
And  mony  a  bouk  did  fa',  man  : 

The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 

I  wat  they  glanced  twenty  miles  : 

They  hack'd  and  hash'd,  while  broad  swords 
clash'd, 

And  thro'  they  dash'd,  and  hew'd  and  smash'd, 
J'ill  fey-men  died  awa,  man. 


But  had  you  seen  the  philibegs, 
And  skyrin  tartan  trews,  man, 
When  in  the  teeth  they  dar'd  our  whigs, 

And  covenant  true  blues,  man ; 
In  lines  extended  lang  and  large, 
When  bayonets  oppos'd  the  targe, 
And  thousands  hasten'd  to  the  charge, 
Wi'  Highland  wrath,  they  frae  the  sheath 
Drew  blades  o'  death,  till,  out  o'  breath, 
They  lied  like  frighted  doos,  man. 


"  O  how  deil,  Tarn,  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  north,  man  : 
I  saw  myself,  they  did  pursue 

The  horsemen  hark  to  Forth,  man  ; 
And  at  Dumblane,  in  my  ain  sight, 
They  look  the  bri  ir  might, 

And  straught  to  Stilling  wing'd  their flight ; 
But,  cursed  lot  !  the  gates  wen:  shut, 
And  mony  a  huntit,  poorred-coat, 

For  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man.'1 


My  sister  Kntc  cam  up  the  gato 

Wi'  erowdie  unto  me.  man  ; 
She  swore  she  saw  some  rebels  run 

Frae  Perth  unto  Dundee,  man  : 
Their  [gft-hand  general  had  nae  skill. 
The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good  will 
That  day  their  neebors'  blood  to  spill  ; 


For  fear,  by  foes,  that  they  should  lose 
Their  cogs  o'  brose  ;  all  crying  woes, 
And  so  it  goes  you  see,  man. 


They've  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen, 
Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man; 

I  fear  my  lord  Panmure  is  slain, 
Or  fallen  in  whiggish  hands,  man: 

Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  fight, 

Some  fell  for  wrang,  and  some  for  right; 

But  mony  bade  the  world  guid-night; 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  mell, 

By  red  claymores,  and  muskets'  knell, 

Wi'  dying  yell  the  tories  fell, 
And  wings  to  hell  did  llee,  man. 


SKETCH.— NEW-YEAR'S  DAY. 


TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Tins  day,  Time  winds  th'  exhausted  chain, 
To  run  the  twelvemonth's  length  again  : 
I  see  the  old,  bald-pated  fellow, 
With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 
Adjust  the  unimpair'd  machine, 
To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir, 

In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer, 

Deaf  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press, 

Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 

Will  you  (the  Major's  with  the  hounds 

The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds  ; 

Coila  's  fair  Rachel's  care  to-day, 

And  blooming  Keith's  engaged  with  Gray) 

From  housewife  cares  a  minute  borrow — 

— That  grandchild's  cap  will  do  to-morrow 

And  join  with  me  a-moralizing, 
This  day's  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 
First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver  ? 
"  Another  year  is  gone  for  ever." 
And  what  is  this  day's  strong  suggestion  ? 
"  The  passing  moment  "s  ;ill  we  rest  on  !" 
lies)  on — for  what :  what  do  we  here  ? 
Or  why  regard  the  passing  year  ? 
Will  Time,amus'd  with  proverb'd lore, 
Add  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 
A  lew  days  may — a  few  years  must — 
Repose  us  in  the  silent  diisl. 
Then  is  it  wise  to  damp  our  bliss? 
Yes — all  such  reasonings  are  amiss  ! 
The  voire  of  nature  loudly  cries, 
And  many  a  message  from  the  skies, 
That  something  in  us  never  dies: 
That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state, 
Hang  matters  of  eternal  weight ; 
That  future  life  in  worlds  unknown 
Must  take  its  hue  from  this  alone  ; 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


121 


Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright, 
Or  dark  as  misery's  woful  night. — 
Since  then,  my  honour'd,  first  of  friends, 
On  this  poor  being  all  depends ; 
Let  us  th'  important  now  employ, 
And  live  as  those  that  never  die. 
Tlio'  you,  with  day  and  honours crown'd, 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 
\  sight  life's  sorrows  to  repulse, 
A  sight  pale  envy  to  convulse,) 
Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard  : 
Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


EXTEMPOR  E,  on  the  late  Mr.  William  Smel- 
lie,  Author  of  the  Philosophy  of  Natural  His- 
tory, and  Member  of  the  Antiquarian  and 
Royal  Societies  of  Edinburgh. 

To  Crochallan  came 
The  old  cock'd  hat,  the  gray  surtout,  the  same ; 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might, 
'Twas  four  long  nights  and  days  to  shaving- 
night, 
His    uncomlit  (1   grizzly    locks    wild    staring, 

thatch'd, 
A  head  for  thought  profound  and  clear,  un- 

match'd  ; 
Yet  tho'  his  caustic  wit  was  biting,  rude, 
His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and  good. 


POETICAL  INSCRIPTION^  an  Altar  to\ 
Independence,  at  Kcrroughlry,  the  Seal  ofMr.i 
Heron  ;  written  in  summer,  1795. 

Thou  of  an  independent  mind, 

With  soul  resolv'd,  with  soul  resign'd ; 

Frepar'd  Power's  proudest  frown  to  brave, 

Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have  a  slave ; 

Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere, 

Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear, 

Approach  tliis  shrine,  and  worsliip  here. 


SONNET, 

ON   THE 

DEATH  OF  ROBERT  RIDDEL,  Esa. 

OF    GLEN   RIDDEL,    APRIL,    1794. 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no  more, 
Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating  on  my  soul ; 
Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  thy  ver- 
dant stole, 
More  welcome  were  to   me   grim    Winter's 
wildest  roar. 

I  2 


How  can  yo  charm,  yc  flow'rs  with  all  your 
dyes  ? 
Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my  friend ; 
How  can  1  to  the  tuneful  strain  attend? 
That   strain    flows    round   lh'  untimely   tomb 
where  Riddel  lies. 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  wo, 
And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  on  this  bier : 
The  Man  of  Worth,  and  has  not  lefl  his  peer, 

Is  in  his  "narrow  house"  for  ever  darkly  low. 

Thee,    Spring,    again  with  joy  shall  others 

greet ; 
Me,  mem'ry  of  my  loss  will  only  meet. 


MONODY 


LADY  FAMED  FOR  HER  CAPRICE. 

How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fir'd, 
How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the  rouo-e 
lately  glisten'd ! 
How  silent  that  tongue  which  the  echoes  oft 
tir'd, 
How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flattery  so  lis- 
ten'd! 


If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await, 

From  friendship  and  dearest    affection  re- 
mov'd ; 

How  doubly  severer,  Eliza,  thy  fate, 

Thou  diedst  unwept  as  thou  livedst  unlov'd, 

Loves,  Graces,  and  Virtues,  I  call  not  on  you ; 

So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  shed  not  a 
tear : 
But  come,  all  ye  offspring  of  folly  so  true, 

And  flowers  let  us  cull  for  Eliza's  cold  bier. 

We'll  search  thro'  the  garden  for  each  silly 
flower, 
We'll  roam  tliro'  the  forest  for  each  idle 
weed ; 
But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower, 
For  none  e'er  approach 'd  her  but  ru'd  the 
rash  deed. 


We'll  sculpture  the  marble,  we'll  measure  the 
lay; 
Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  tyre ; 
There  keen  Indignation  shall  dart  on  her  prey, 
Which  spurning  Contempt  shall  redeem  from 
his  ire. 


122 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


TIIE    EriTAPII. 


Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting-  neo-lect 
\\  hat  once   was  a  butterfly,  °gay   in  life's 
beam : 

Waul  only  of  wisdmn  denied  her  respect, 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem. 


ANSWER  to  a  Mandate  sent  by  the  Surveyor 
of  the  Windows,  Carriages,  <Le.  to  each  Far- 
mer, ordering  him  to  send  a  signed  List  of  his 
Horses,  Servants,  Wheel-Carriages,  &c.,  and 
whether  he  ivas  a  married  Man  or  a  Bachelor, 
and  tvhat  Children  they  had. 


Sir,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 
I  send  you  here  a  faithfa'  list, 
My  horses,  servants,  carts,  and  graith, 
To  which  I'm  free  to  tak  my  aith. 


Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage  cattle, 
I  hae  four  brutes  o'  gallant  mettle, 
As  ever  drew  before  a  pet  tie. 
My  hand  afore,  a  guid  auld  has-been, 
And  wight  and  wilfu'  a"  his  days  seen  ; 
My  hand  a  hin,  a  guid  brown  filly, 
Wha  aft  hae  borne  me  safe  frae  Killie, 
And  yoilr  old  borough  mony  a  time, 
In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime  : 
My/wr  a  hin,  a  guid  gray  beast, 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  trae'd  : 
The  fourth,  a  Highland  Donald  hasty, 
A  d-mn'd  red-wud,  Kilburnie  blastie. 
For-by  a  cowt,  of  cowts  the  wale, 
As  ever  ran  before  a  tail ; 
An'  he  be  spar'd  to  be  a  beast, 
He'll  draw  me  fifteen  pund  at  least. 


Wheel  carriages  T  hae  but  faw, 
Three  carts,  and  twa  are  fecklynew; 
An  auld  wheel-barrow,  mair  for  token, 
Ae  log  and  baith  the  trams  are  broken  • 
I  made  a  poker  o'  the  spindle, 
And  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trundle. 
For  men,  I've  three  mischievous  boys, 
Run-deils  for  rani  in  and  for  noise  ■ 
A  gadsman  ane,a  thrasher  t'other,' 
Wee  Davoc  hands  the  nowte  in  t'other. 

1  rule  thero,  a    I  I  (.  di  creetly, 

And  often  labour  them  completely, 
And  ay  on  Sundays  duly  nightly, ' 
I  on  the  questions  tairge  them  tightly. 
Till  faith  wee  Davoc's  grown  sac  "len- 
(Tho'  scarcely  [anger  than  m  , 
He'll  screed  you  oSeffeci 
As  fast  as  ony  in  the  d  walling. 


I've  nane  in  female  servant  station, 
Lord  keep  me  ay  frae  a'  temptation! 
1  hae  nae  wife,  and  that  my  bliss  is, 
And  ye  hae  laid  nae  tax  on  misses; 
For  weans  I'm  mail  than  well  contented, 
Heaven  sent  me  ane  mair  than  I  wanted; 
My  sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess, 
She  stares  the  daddie  in  her  face, 
Enough  of  ought  ye  like  but  grace. 
But  her,  my  bonnie,  sweet,  wee  lady 
I've  said  enough  for  her  already, 
And  if  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 
By  the  L — d  ye'se  get  them  a'  thegither ! 

And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken, 

Nae  kind  of  license  out  I'm  taking. 

Thro'  dirt  and  dub  for  life  I'll  paidle, 

Ere  I  sae  dear  pay  for  a  saddle  ; 

I've  sturdy  stumps,  the  Lord  be  thanked ! 

And  a'  my  gates  on  foot  I'll  shank  it. 

This  list  wi'  my  ain  hand  I've  wrote  it, 
The  day  and  date  is  under  noted  ; 
Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subscripsi  huic 


Robert  Burns. 


Mossgicl,  22d,  Feb.  1786. 


SONG. 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho'  e'er  sae  fair, 
Shall  ever  be  my  muse's  care ; 
Their  titles  a'  are  empty  show  ; 
Gie  me  my  highland  lassie,  O. ' 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 
Jl boon  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O, 
/  set  me  doun  wV  right  good  will; 
To  sing  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

Oh,  were  yon  hills  and  valleys  mine, 
Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine ! 
The  world  then  tho  love  should  know 
I  bear  my  highland  lassie,  O. 
Within  the  glen,  &c. 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me, 
Anil  I  maun  cross  the  raging  sea* 
But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow 
I  love  my  highland  lassie,  O. 
Within  the  glen,  &c. 

Altho'  thro'  foreign  climes  I  range, 
I  know  hor  heart  will  never  change, 
For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour's 'o-low 
My  faithful  highland  lassie,  O. 
Within  the  glen,  kc. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


123 


For  her  I'll  dare  the  billow's  roar, 
For  her  I'll  trace  a  djfitanl  shore, 
That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 
Around  my  highland  lassie,  O. 
Within  Hit  glen,  ice. 

She  has  my  heart,  sin-  has  my  hand, 
By  sacred  tmth  and  honour's  hand  ! 
Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 
I'm  thine,  my  highland  lassie,  O. 

Farewell  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O  .' 
Farewell  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O! 

To  other  lands  I  now  must  go, 
To  sing  my  highland  lassie,  O  ! 


IMPROMPTU, 
ON  MRS. 's  BIRTH-DAY, 

NOVEMBER  •),  1793- 

Old  Winter  with  his  frosty  beard, 
Thus  once  to  .love  his  prayer  preferr  d ; 
What  have  I  done  of  all  the  year, 
To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe  ? 
My  cheerless  suns  no  pleasure  know; 
Night's  horrid  car  drags,  dreary,  slow ; 
My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crowning, 
But  spleeny  English,  hanging,  drowning. 

Now,  Jove,  fo  r  once  be  mighty  civil, 

To  counterbalance  all  this  evil ; 

Give  me,  and  I've  no  more  to  say, 

Give  me  Maria's  natal  day  ! 

That  brilliant  gift  will  so  enrich  me, 

Spring,  summer,  autumn,  cannot  match  me, 

'Tis  done  !  says  Jove  ;  so  ends  my  story, 

And  Winter  once  rejoie'd  in  glory. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  LADY. 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea ; 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee  : 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a'  to  share  it  a'. 


Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  hare,  sae.  black  and  bare, 
The  desart  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there. 


Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 
Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign ; 

The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown, 
Wad  De  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 


MISS  JESSY  • 


-,  DUMFRIES  ; 


With  Books  which  the  Bard  presented  her. 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  Jessy  fair, 
And  with  them  take  the  poet's  prayer; 
That  fate  may  in  her  fairest  page, 
With  every  kindliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enrol  thy  name  : 
With  native  worth  and  spotless  fame, 
And  wakeful  caution  still  aware 
Of  ill — but  chief,  man's  felon  snare  ; 
All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find, 
And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind — 
These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward  ; 
So  prays  thy  faithful  friend,  thu  Bard. 


SONNET,  written  on  the  %5th  of  January,  1793, 
the  Birth-day  of  the  Author,  on  hearing  a 
Thrush  si7ig  in  a  morning  Walk. 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough : 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain  : 
See°affed  Winter,  'mid  his  surly  reign, 

At  thy  blythe  carol  clears  his  furrow'd  brow. 

So  in  lone  Poverty's  dominion  drear, 

Sits  meek  Content  with    light    unanxious 

heart,  ,       [part, 

Welcomes  the  rapid   moments,   bids   them 

Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 

I  thank  thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day  ! 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yon  orient 
skies ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys, 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away ! 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care ; 
The  mite   high  Heaven  bestowed,  that  mite 
with  thee  111  share. 


EXTEMPORE,  to  Mr.  S**E,  on  refusing  to 
dine  with  him,  after  having  been  promised  the 
first  of  Company,  and  the  first  of  Cookey ; 
11th  December,  1795. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not, 
And  cook'ry  the  first  in  the  nation  ; 

Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and  wit, 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


124 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


To  Mr.  S**E,  with  a  Present  of  a  Dozen  of 
Porter. 

O,  hap  the  malt,  thy  strength  of  mind, 
Or  hops  the  flavour  of" i liv  wit, 

'Twere  drink  for  first  of  human  kind, 
A  gift  that  e'en  for  S  *  *  e  were  fit. 

Jerusalem  Tavern,  Dumfries. 


THE  DUMFRIES  VOLUNTEERS. 


Tune — "  Push  about  the  Jorum." 


April,  1795. 

Dors  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat? 

Then  let  the  loons  beware,  Sir, 
There's  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas, 

And  volunteers  on  shore,  Sir. 
The  Nith  shall  run  to  Corsincon, 

And  Criffel  sink  in  Solway, 
Ere  we  permit  a  foreign  foe 

On  British  ground  to  rally  ! 

Fall  de  rail,  &c 


O  let  us  not  like  snarling  tykes 

In  wrangling  be  divided ; 
Till  slap  come  in  an  unco  loon 

And  wi'  a  rung  decide  it. 
Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true, 

Amang  oursels  united ; 
For  never  but  by  British  hands 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted. 
Fall  de  rail,  kc. 


The  kettle  o'  the  kirk  and  state, 

Perhaps  a  claut  may  fail  in't ; 
But  dcil  a  foreign  tinkler  loun 

Shall  ever  ca  ;i  nail  int. 
Our  fathers'  bluid  the  kettle  bought, 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it ; 
By  heaven  the  sacrilegious  dog 

Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it. 

Fall  de  rail,  &c. 


The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own, 

And  the  wretch  his  true-born  brother, 
Who  would  set  the  mob  aboon  the  throne, 

May  they  be  damn'd  together ! 
Who  will  not  sing,  "  God  save  the  King," 

Shall  hang  as  high's  tl 
But  «  hile  we  sing,  "  God  save  the  King," 

We'll  ne'er  forget  the  People. 


POEM, 

ADDRESSED  TO  MR.  MITCHELL,  COLLECTOR  OP 
EXCISE,  DUMFRIES,  179G. 

Friend  of  the  Poet,  tried  and  leal, 
Wha  wanting  thee,  might  beg  or  steal ; 
Alake,  alake,  the  meikle  deil 

Wi'  a'  his  witches 
Arc  at  it,  skelpin  :  jig  and  reel, 

In  my  poor  pouches. 

I  modestly  fu'  fain  wad  hint  it, 
That  one  pound  one,  I  sauly  want  it : 
If  wi'  the  hizzic  down  ye  sent  it, 

It  would  be  kind  ; 
And  while  my  heart  wi'  life-blood  dunted, 

I'd  hear 't  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning 
To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 
Wi'  double  plenty  o'er  the  loanin 

To  thee  and  thine ; 
Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 

The  hale  design. 


POSTSCRIPT. 


Ye've  heard  this  while  how  I've  been  licket, 
And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket: 
Grim  loun  !  he  gat  me  by  the  fecket, 

And  sair  me  sheuk  ; 
But  by  guid  luck  I  lap  a  wicket, 

And  turn'd  a  ncuk. 

I  But  by  that  health  I  ve  got  a  share  o't, 

IAnd  by  that  life,  I'm  promis'd  mair  o't, 
My  hale  and  weel  I'll  take  a  care  o't 
A  tentier  way ; 
I  Then  farewell  folly,  hide  and  hair  o't, 

For  ancc  and  aye. 


Sent  to  a  Gentleman  whom  he  had  offended. 


The  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom's  way 
The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send  ; 

(Not  moony  madness  more  astray) 
Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend  ? 

Mine  was  th'  insensate  frenzied  part, 
Ah  why  should  1  such  scenes  outlive  ! 

Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart  ! 
"J'is  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


125 


POEM  ON  LIFE. 

ADDRESSED    TO    COLONEL   DE    TEYSTER, 
DUMFRIES,    1796. 

My  honour'd  colonel,  deep  I  feel 
Your  interest  in  the  Poet's  weal ; 
Ah !  now  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  speel 

The  steep  Parnassus, 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  pill, 

And  potion  glasses. 

O  what  a  canty  warld  were  it, 

Would  pain  and  rare,  and  sickness  spare  it; 

And  fortune  favour  worth  and  merit, 

As  they  deserve : 
(And  aye  a  rowth,  roast  beef  and  claret ; 

Sync  wha  wad  starve  ?) 

Dame  Life,  tho'  fiction  out  may  trick  her, 
And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck  her; 
On  !  flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker 

I've  found  her  still, 
Ay  wavering  like  the  willow  wicker, 

'Twecn  good  and  ill. 

Then  that  curst  carmagnole,  auld  Satan, 
Watches,  like  baudrans  by  a  rattan, 
Our  sinfu'  saul  to  get  a  claut  on 

Wi'  felon  ire ; 
Syne,  whip  !  his  tail  ye'll  ne'er  cast  saut  on, 

He's  off  like  fire. 

Ah  Nick !  ah  Nick !  it  is  na  fair, 
First  showing  us  the  tempting  ware, 
Bright  wines  and  bonnie  lasses  rare, 

To  put  us  daft ; 
Sync  weave,  unseen,  thy  spider  snare 

O'  hell's  damn'd  waft. 


Poor  man,  the  flic,  aft  bizzes  by, 

And  aft  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh, 

Thy  auld  damn'd  elbow  yeuks  wi'  joy, 

And  hellish  pleasure ; 
Already  in  thy  fancy's  eye, 

Thy  sicker  treasure. 

Soon,  heels  o'er  gowdie !  in  he  gangs, 
And  like  a  sheep-head  on  a  tangs, 
Thy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 

And  murdering  wrestle, 
As  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs 

A  gibbet's  tassel. 

But  lest  you  think  1  am  uncivil, 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting  drivel, 

Abjuring  a'  intentions  evil, 

I  quat  my  pen  : 
The  Lord  preserve  us  frae  the  devil ! 

Amen !  amen '. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  TOOTH-ACH. 


My  curso  upon  thy  venom'd  stang, 
That  shoots  my  tortur'd  gums  alang ; 
And  thro'  my  lugs  gies  mony  a  twang, 

Wi' gnawing  vengeance ; 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  Bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines ! 


When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  cholic  squeezes ; 
Our  neighbour's  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi'  pitying  moan ; 
But  thee— thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases, 

Ay  mocks  our  groan ! 


Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle  ! 
I  throw  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  mickle, 
As  round  the  fire  tho  giglets  kecklc, 

To  see  me  loup  ; 
While  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 

Were  in  their  doup. 


O'  a'  the  num'rous  human  dools, 
111  har'sts,  daft  bargains,  cully-stools, 
Or  worthy  friends  rak'd  i'  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see  \ 
The  tricks  o'  knaves,  or  fash  o'  fools, 

Thou  bear'st  the  gree. 


Where'er  that  place  be  priests  ca'  hell, 
Whence  a'  the  tones  o'  mis'ry  yell, 
And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfu'  raw, 
Thou,  Tooth-ach,  surely  bear'st  the  bell 

Amanij  them  a'  I 


O  thou  grim,  mischief-making  chiel, 
That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel, 
Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe-thick ; — 
Gic  a'  the  faes  o'  Scotland's  weal 

A  towmond's  Tooth-ach ! 


SONG. 


Tune— "Morag." 


O  wha  is  she  that  lo'es  me, 
And  has  my  heart  a-keeping? 

O  sweet  is  she  that  lo'es  me, 
As  dews  o'  simmer  weeping, 
In  tears  the  rose-buds  steeping. 


12G 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


O  that's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart, 

My  lassie  ever  dean  r  ; 
O  that's  the  queen  o'  womankind, 

And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her. 

If  thou  shalt  meet  a  lassie, 

In  grace  and  beauty  charming, 

That  e'en  thy  chosen  lassie, 

Ere  while  thy  breast  sae  wanning', 
Had  ne'er  sic  powers  alarming. 
O  that's,  kc. 

If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking, 
And  thy  attentions  plighted 

That  ilka  body  talking, 
But  her  by  thee  is  slighted 
And  thou  art  all  delighted. 
O  that's,  &c. 

If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one; 
When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted, 

If  every  other  fair  one. 

But  her  thou  hast  deserted, 
And  thou  art  broken-hearted. — 
O  that's,  Sec. 


SONG. 

Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss, 
O'er  the  mountains  he  is  gane; 

And  with  him  is  a'  my  bliss, 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 

Sparc  my  hive,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 
Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain  ! 

Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snaw, 
Drifting  o'er  the  frozen  plain. 

When  the  sliados  of  evening  creep 
O'er  the  day's  fair,  gladsome  e'e, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep, 
Sweetly  blithe  his  waukening  be! 

Tic  will  think  on  he.r  he  loves, 
Fondly  he'll  repeat  her  name; 

For  where'er  be  distant  roves, 
Jockey's  heart  is  still  at.  hame. 


SONG. 


My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggys  form, 
The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  warm: 
My  Pe  's  mind, 

Might  (barm  the  first  of  human  kind. 


I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air, 
Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art, 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart. 

The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dyo, 
The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye; 
Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway, 
'Who  but  knows  they  all  decay! 
The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 
The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear, 
The  gentle  look,  thai  rage  disarms, 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


WRITTEN  in  a  Wrapper  enclosing  a  Letter 
to  Capt.  Grose,  to  be  left  with  Mr.  Cardonnel, 
Antiquarian. 

Tune — "  Sir  John  Malcolm." 

Ken  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose? 

Igo,  &  ago, 
If  he's  amang  his  friends  or  fous  ? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  South,  or  is  he  North  ? 

Igo,  &  ago, 
Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highland  bodies  ? 

Igo,  k  ago, 
And  eaten  "like  a  weather-haggis 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  to  Abram's  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo,  &  ago, 
Or  haudin  Sarah  by  the  wame? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Where'er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him  1 

Igo,  &  ago, 
As  for  the  deil,  he  daur  na  steer  him. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  lh'  enclosed  letter, 

Tgo,  &  ago, 
Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  hae  auld  slanes  in  store, 

Igo,  & 
The  very  stanes  thai  Adam  bore. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 

■  ago, 
The  coins  o'  Satan's  coronation! 
iram,  coram,  dago. 


BURNS'  POEMS 
TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esq., 


127 


OF  FINTRY, 

ON    RECEIVING    A    FAVOUR. 

I  call  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 
A  fabled  Muse  may  suit  a  bard  that  feigns  ; 
Friend  of  my  life  !  my  ardent  spirit  bums, 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns, 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new, 
The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day  !  thou  other  paler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night; 
If  aught  thai  giver  from  my  mind  efface; 
If  I  that  giver's  bounty  e'er  disgrace ; 
Then  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  spheres, 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years ! 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FRIEND. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest, 
As  e'er  God  with  his  image  blest ; 
The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth: 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth  : 
Few  hearts  like  his,  with  virtue  warm'd, 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform'd  : 
If  there's  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss ; 
If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 


A  GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER. 

O  thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 

For  every  creature's  want ! 
We  bless  thee,  God  of  Nature  wide, 

For  all  thy  goodness  lent : 
And,  if  it  please  thee,  Heavenly  Guide, 

May  never  worse  be  sent ; 
But  whether  granted,  or  denied, 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content  1 
Amen  I 


To  my  dear  and  much  honoured  Friend, 
Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop. 

ON  SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility,  how  charming, 
Thou,  my  friend,  canst  truly  tell; 

But  distress  with  horrors  arming, 
Thou  hast  also  known  too  well ' 


tlower,  behold  the  lily, 
Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray: 
Let  the  blast  sweep  o'er  the  valley, 
See  it  prostrate  on  the  cl<iy. 


]  [ear  the  wood-lark  charm  Iho  forest, 

Telling  o'er  his  little  joys; 
Hapless  bird!  a  prey  the  surest, 

To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure, 
Finer  feelings  can  bestow  ; 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure, 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  wo. 


A  VERSE  composed  and  repealed  by  Burns  to 
the  Master  of  the  House,  on  taking  leave  at  a 
Place  in  the  Highlands,  uherc  he  had  been 
hospitably  entertained. 

When  death's  dark  stream  I  ferry  o'er, 
A  time  that  surely  shall  come ; 

In  Heaven  itself,  I'll  ask  no  more, 
Than  just  a  Highland  wel  come. 


FAREWELL  TO  AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew, 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu ! 

Bonny  Doon,  sae  sweet  at  gloamm, 
Fare  thee  weel  before  I  gang ! 

Bonny  Doon,  whare  early  roaming, 
First  I  weav'd  the  rustic  sang  ! 

Bowers,  adieu,  whare  Love,  decoying, 
First  inthrall'd  this  heart  o'  mine, 

There  the  safest  sweets  enjoying, — 
Sweets  that  Mem'ry  ne'er  shall  tyne  I 

Friends,  so  near  my  bosom  ever, 
Ye  hae  render'd  moments  dear ; 

But,  alas !  when  fore'd  to  sever, 
Then  the  stroke,  O,  how  severe ! 

Friends  !  that  parting  tear  reserve  it, 
Tho'  'tis  doubly  dear  to  me ! 

Could  I  think  I  did  deserve  it, 
How  much  happier  would  I  be ! 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 

Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew 

Scenes  of  wo  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 

Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POETRY, 


SELECTED  FROM 


wmm  siia^n 


ROBERT    BURNS 


FIRST  PUBLISHED  BY  R.  H.  CROMEK. 


VERSES  WRITTEN  AT  SELKIRK. 


Auld  chuckie  Reekie's*  sair  distrcst, 
Down  droops  her  ance  weel  burnisht  crest, 
Nao  joy  her  bonnie  busket  nest 

Can  yield  ava, 
Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo'es  best, 
Willie's  awa ! 

II. 

O  Willie  was  a  witty  Wight, 
And  had  o'  things  an  unco  slight ; 
Auld  Reekie  ay  he  keopit  tin-lit, 

And  trig  an'  braw  : 
But  now  they'll  busk  her  like  a  fright, 
Willie's  awa  1 

D3. 

The  stillest  o'  them  a'  he  bow'd, 
The  bauldest  o'  them*  a'  he  cow'd  ; 
They  durst  nae  rnair  than  he  allbw'd, 

That  was  a  law  : 
We've  lost  a  birkie  weel  worth  gowd, 
Willie's  awa  '. 

TV. 

Now  gawkics,  tawpies,  gowks  and  fools, 
Frae  colleges  and  boarding  schools, 

*  Edinburgh. 


May  sprout  like  simmer  puddock-stools, 

In  glen  or  shaw  ; 
Ho  wha  could  brush  them  down  to  mools, 
Willie's  awa. 


The  brethren  o'  the  Commerce-Chaumer* 
May  mourn  their  loss  wi'  doolfu'  clamour; 
He  was  a  dictionar  and  grammar 

Amang  them  a' ; 
I  fear  they'll  now  mak  mony  a  stammer, 
Willie's  awa ! 

VI. 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  Poets  pour,t 
And  toothy  critics  by  the  score, 

In  bloody  raw ! 
The  adjutant  o'  a'  the  core, 

Willie's  awa ! 

VII. 

Now  worthy  G*****y's  latin  face, 
T****^  and  G*********'b  modest  grace ; 
M'  K****e,  S****t,  such  a  brace 

As  Rome  ne'er  saw; 
They  a'  maun  meet  some  ither  place, 
Willie's  awa ! 

*  The  Chamber  of  Commerce  of  Edinburgh,  of  which 
Mr.  C.  was  Secretary. 

t  Many  literary  gentlemen  were  accustomed  to  meet 
at  Mr.  C— 's  house  at  breakfast. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


129 


vm. 


Poor  Bums — e1en  Scotcli  drink  canna  quicken, 
He  cheeps  like  some  bewilder  d  chicken, 
Scar'd  frae  its  minnie  and  the  cleckin 

By  hoodie-craw; 
Griefs  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin, 

Willing   !iwn   I 


Willie's  awa  I 


LX. 


ev'ry  sour-mou'd  girnin'  hlellum, 
Calvin's  fock  arc  ht  to  fell  him  ; 


Now 

And  Calvi 

And  self-conceited  critic  skellum 

His  quill  may  draw ; 
Ho  wha  could  brawUe  ward  their  bcllum, 
Willie's  awa ! 


Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I've  sped, 
And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 
And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red, 

While  tempests  blaw ; 
But  every  joy  and  pleasure's  fled, 

Willie's  awa! 

XL 

May  I  be  slander's  common  speech ; 
A  text  for  infamy  to  preach  ; 
And  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 

In  whiter  snaw ; 
When  I  forget  thee !  WTillie  Creech, 
Tho'  far  awa ! 

xn. 

May  never  wicked  fortune  touzle  him  ! 
May  never  wicked  men  bamboozle  him  ! 
Until  a  pow  as  auld's  Methusalem ! 

He  canty  claw  ! 
Then  to  the  blessed,  New  Jerusalem,     - 
Fleet  wing  awa ! 


LIBERTY. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 
Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song, 

To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  eyes ; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead! 

Beneath  that  hallowed  turf  where  WTallacc 
lies ! 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death  ! 

Ye  babbling  winds  in  silence  sweep ; 

Disturb  not  ye  the  hero's  sleep, 
Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath  — 
&  K 


[s  i  his  the  power  in  freedom  s  war 
That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage? 
Behold  that  eye  which  ahol  immortal  hate, 

Crushing  the  despot's  proudest  bearing, 
Thai  arm  which,  nerved  with  thundering  fate, 

Braved  usurpation's  boldest  (lining  1 
One   quench'd   in  darkness  like  the  sinking 

star, 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering,  power- 
less age. 


ELEGY 


ON    THE    T,EATH    OF    RODERT    RUISSEAUX. 


Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair, 

He'll  gabble  rhyme,  nor  sing  nae  mair, 

Cauld  poverty,  wi'  hungry  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him ; 
Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  canker*  care 

E'er  mail'  come  near  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldom  fasht  him  ; 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crusht  him  ; 
For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  husht  'em 

Tho'  e'er  sae  short, 
Then  wi'  a  rhyme  or  song  he  lasht  'em, 

And  thought  it  sport. — 

Tho'  he  was  bred  to  kintra  wark, 

And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark, 

Yet  that  was  never  Robin's  mark 

To  mak  a  man  ; 
But  tell  him,  he  was  learn'd  and  dark, 

Ye  roos'd  him  then  ! 


COMIN  THRO'  THE  RYE. 


Comin  thro'  the  rye,  poor  body, 

Comin  thro'  the  rye, 
She  draigl't  a'  her  petticoatie 
Comin  thro'  the  rye. 

Oh  Jenny's  a'  weet,  poor  body, 

Jenny's  seldom  dry : 
She  draigl't  a'  her  petticoatie 
Comin  thro'  the  rye. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin  thro'  the  rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  a  body  cry. 

Oh  Jenny's  a'  wcet,  &c. 


*  Ruisscauz—z  play  on  his  own  name- 


J  30 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Comin  thro'  the  glen ; 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body, 

Need  the  warld  ken, 

Oh  Jenny's  a'  weet,  Sic. 


THE  LOYAL  NATIVES'  VERSES.* 

Ye  sons  of  sedition,  give  car  to  my  song, 
Let  Syme,  Burns,  and  Maxwell,  pervade  every 

throng, 
With  Craken,  tlio  attorney,  and  Mundcll  the 

quack, 
?!end  Willie  the  monger  to  hell  with  a  smack. 


BURNS — Extempore. 

Ye  true  M  Loyal  Natives,"  attend  to  my  song, 
In  uproar  and  riot  rejoice  the  night  long  ; 
From  envy  and  hatred  your  corps  is  exempt; 
But  where  is    your  shield   from    the    dart  of 
contempt  .* 


TO  J.  LAPRAIK. 

Sept.  Uth,  1785. 

Gtjid  speed  an'  furder  to  you  Jolmie, 

Guid  health,  hale  ban's,  and  weather  bonnie 

Now  when  ye're  niekan  down  fu'  cannio 

The  staff  o'  bread, 
May  ye  ne'er  want  a  stoup  o'  brandy 

To  clear  your  head. 

May  Boreas  never  thresh  your  rigs, 
Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 
Scndin  the  stuif  o'er  muirs  an'  haggs 

Like  drivin  wrack ; 
But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 

Come  to  the  sack. 

I'm  bizzie  too,  an'  skelpin  at  it, 

But  bitter,  daudin  showers  hae  wat  it, 


*  \i  this  period  of  our  Poet's  life  when  political  ani- 
mosity was  made  the  pound  of  private  quarrel,  the 
above  foolish  verses  were  sent  as  an  attack  on  Burns 
and  his  friends  for  their  political  opinions.  They  wen 
written  by  some  member  of  a  club  styling  themselves 
the  Loyal  Natives  of  Dumfries,  or  rather  by  the  united 
genius  of  that  club,  which  was  more  distinguished  for 
drunken  loyalty,  than  either  for  respectability  01 
cal  talent.  The  verses  wi  re  handed  ovi  r  tin 
Duma  at  a  convivial  meeting,  and  he  instantly  endorsed 
bjoined  reply.  Relique9,p.  168. 


Sae  my  old  stumpie  pen  I  gat  it 

Wi'  nrackle  wark, 

An'  took  my  joctclcg  an'  whatt  it, 

Like  ony  clerk. 

It's  now  twa  month  that  I'm  your  debtor, 
For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter, 
Abusin  me  for  harsh  ill  naturo 

On  holy  men, 
While  dicl  a  hair  yourscl  ye're  better, 

But  mail  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells, 
Let's  sing  about  our  noble  si  Is  ; 
We'll  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 

To  help,  or  roose  us, 
But  browster  wives  and  whiskie  stills, 

They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  Sir,  I  wiima  quat  it, 

An'  if  ye  mak  objections  a1  it, 

Then  han'  hi  nievc  some  day  we'll  knot  it, 

An'  witness  take, 
An'  when  wi'  usqucbae  we've  wat  it 

It  winna  break. 

But  if  the  beast  and  branks  be  spar'd 
Till  kye  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 
An'  a'  the  vittel  in  the  yard, 

An'  theckit  right, 
I  mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 

Ac  winter  night. 

Then  muse-inspiring  aqua-vitae 

Shall  make  us  baith  sae  blithe  an'  witty, 

Till  ye  forget  ye're  auld  an'  gatty, 

An'  be  as  canty 
As  ye  were  nine  years  less  than  thretty, 

Sweet  ane  an'  twenty . 

But  stooks  are  cowpet  wi'  the  blast, 
An'  now  the  sun  keeks  in  the  west, 
Then  1  maun  rin  amang  the  rest 

An'  quat  my  chanter 
Sae  I  subscribe  mysel  in  haste, 

Yours,  itab  the  Ranter. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  M'MATH. 

ENCLOSING  A  COTY    OF    HOLY  WILLIE'S    PRAYER, 
WHICH  HE  HAD  REQUESTED. 


Sept.  llih,  1785. 

While  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cow'r 
To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin  show'r, 
Or  in  gulravage  rinnin  scow'r 

To  pass  the  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 

Li  idle  rhyme. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


131 


My  musie,  tir'd  wi'  mony  a  sonnet 

On  gown,  an'  ban',  an'  douse  black  bonnet, 

Is  grown  right  eerie  now  she's  done  it, 

Lest  they  should  blame  her 
An'  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it 

And  anathem  her. 


I  own  'twas  rash,  an'  rather  hardy, 
That  I,  a  simple,  kintra  bardie, 
Should  meddle  wi'  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me, 
Can  easy,  wi'  a  single  wordie, 

Lowse  h-11  upon  mc. 


But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 
Their  sighan,  cantan,  grace-prood  faces, 
Their  three  mile  prayers,  an'  hauf-mile  graces, 

Their  raxan  conscience, 
Whasc  greed,  revenge,  an'  pride  disgraces 

Waur  nor  their  nonsense. 


There's  Gaun,*  miska't  waur  than  a  beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honour  in  his  breast, 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid's  the  priest 

Wha  sae  abus't  him  ; 
An'  may  a  bard  no  crack  his  jest  [him. 

What    way    they've    use't 


See  himt  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  an'  deed, 
An'  shall  his  fame  an'  honour  bleed 

By  worthless  skellums, 
An'  not  a  muse  erect  her  head 

To  cowe  the  blellums  ? 


O  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts 
To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 
I'd  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts, 

An'  tell  aloud 
Their  jugglin  hocus-pocus  arts 

To  cheat  the  crowd. 


God  knows,  I'm  no  the  tiling  T  should  be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be, 
But  twenty  times,  I  rather  would  be, 

An'  atheist  clean, 
Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be, 

Just  for  a  screen. 


An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass, 
An  honest  man  may  like  a  lass, 


♦Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq. 

tThe  poet  lias  introduced  the  two  fust  linos  of  the 
stanza  into  the  dedication  of  hti  works  to  Mr.  Hamilton. 


But  mean  revenge,  an'  malice  fausc, 
1  It'll  still  disdain, 

An'  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws, 

Like  .some  we  ken. 


They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  ; 
They  talk  o'  mercy,  grace  an'  truth, 
For  what  ?  to  gie  their  malice  skouth 

On  some  puir  wight. 
An'  hunt  him  down,  o'er  right  an'  ruth, 

To  ruin  streijHit. 


All  hail,  Religion  !  maid  divine  ! 
Pardon  a  muse  sae  mean  as  mine, 
Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee  ; 
To  stigmatize  false  friends  of  thine 

Can  ne'er  defame  thee. 


Tho'  blotcht  an'  foul  wi'  mony  a  stain, 

An'  far  unworthy  of  thy  train, 

With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 

To  join  with  those, 
Who  boldly  dare  thy  cause  maintain 

In  spite  of  foes  : 


In  spite  o'  crowds,  in  spite  o'  mobs, 
In  spite  of  undermining  jobs, 
In  spite  o'  dark  banditti  stabs 

At  worth  an'  merit, 
By  scoundrels,  even  wi'  holy  robes, 

But  hellish  spirit. 


O  Ayr,  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 
Within  thy  presbytereal  bound 
A  candid  lib'ral  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers, 
As  men,  as  christians  too  renown'd, 

An'  manly  preachers. 


Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  nam'd ; 
Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  fam'd ; 
An'  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine's  blam'd 

(Which  gies  you  honour; 
Even,  Sir,  by  them  your  heart's  esteem'd, 

An'  winning  manner. 


Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  ta'en, 

An'  if  impertinent  I've  been, 

Impute  it  not,  good  Sir,  in  anc  [ye, 

Whase  heart  ne'er  wrang'd 
But  to  his  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  bclang'd  ye. 


132 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esci. 


MAUCIILIXE. 


(recommending  a  boy.) 

Mosgaville,  May,  3, 1786. 

I  hold  it,  Sir,  my  boundon  duty 

To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootic, 

Alias,  Laird  M'Gaun,* 
Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
'Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day, 

An1  wad  hae  don't  all' ban' : 
But  lest  he  learn  the  eallan  tricks, 

As  faitli  I  muckle  doubt  him, 
Like  scrapin  out  auld  crummie's  nicks, 
An'  tellin  lies  about  them  ; 
As  lieve  then  I'd  have  then, 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair, 
If  sae  be,  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  otherwhere. 


Altlio"  I  say't,  he's  gleg  enough, 

An'  bout  a  house  that's  rude  an'  rough, 

The  boy  might  learn  to  swear  ; 
But  then  wi' you,  he'll  be  sae  taught, 
An'  get  sic  fair  example  straught, 

I  hae  na  ony  fear. 
Ye'll  catechize  him  every  quirk, 

An'  shore  him  well  wi'  hell; 
An'  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk 

— Ay  when  ye  gang  yoursel. 
If  ye  then,  maun  be  then 

Frae  hame  this  comin  Friday, 
Then  please,  Sir,  to  lea'e,  Sir, 
The  orders  wi'  your  lady. 


My  word  of  honour  I  hae  gien, 

In  Paisley  John's,  that  night  at  e'en, 

To  meet  the  WarWs  worm  ; 
To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 
An'  name  the  airlcs  an'  the  fee, 

In  legal  mode  an'  form  : 
I  ken  he  weel  a  Snick  can  draw, 

When  simple  bodies  let  him  ; 
An'  if  a  Devil  be  aj  a', 

In  faith  he's  sure  to  get  him. 
To  phrase  you  an'  praise  you, 
Ye  ken  your  Laureat  scorns : 
The  prayer  still,  you  share  still, 
Of  grateful  Minstrel  Burns. 


*  Master  Tootic  then  lived  in  Mauchline  ;  a  dealer 
in  Cows.  It  was  his  common  practice  to  cut  the  nicks 
or  markings  from  the  horns  of  cattle,  to  disguise  their 
age. — He  was  an  artful  trick- contriving  character; 
hence  he  is  called  a  Snick-drawer-  In  the  Toct  s  "Ad- 
dress to  the  Deil"  he  styles  that  august  personage  an 
uitld,  snick-dratcing  dog!  Htliques,  p.  397. 


TO  MR.  M'ADAM 
OF  CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

In  answer  to  an  obliging  Letter  he  sent  in  the 
commencement  of  my  Poetic  Career. 

Sir,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card, 

I  trow  it  made  me  proud  ; 
See  wha  taks  notice  o'  the  bard  ! 

I  lap  and  cry'd  fu'  loud. 


Now  deil-ma-care  about  their  jaw, 
The  senseless,  gawky  million; 

I'll  cock  my  nose  aboqn  them  a', 
I'm  roos'd  by  Craigen-Gillan '. 

'Twas  noble,  Sir  ;  'twas  like  yoursel, 
To  grant  your  high  protection  : 

A  great  man's  smile  ye  ken  fu'  well, 
Is  ay  a  blest  infection. 

Tho',  by  his  banes  wha  in  a  tub 
Match'd  Macedonian  Sandy! 

On  my  ain  logs  thro'  dirt  an'  dub, 
1  independent  stand  ay. — 

And  when  those  legs  to  guid,  warm  kail, 
Wi'  welcome  canna  hear  me ; 

A  lee  dyke-side,  a  sybow-tail, 

And  barley-scone  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  tho  breath 

O'  mony  fiow'ry  simmers1! 
And  bless  your  bonnie  lasses  baith, 

I'm  tald  the're  loosome  kinmiers '. 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskin's  laird, 

The  blossom  of  our  gentry ! 
And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man's  beard 

A  credit  to  his  country. 


TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL, 

GLEN  RIDDEL. 

{Extempore  Lines  on  returning  a  Ktivspaper.) 

Ellisland,  Monday  Evening. 

Your  news  and  review,  Sir,  I've  read  through 
and  through,  Sir, 

With  little  admiring  or  blaming; 
The  papers  are  barren  of  home-news  or  foreign, 

No  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 

Our  friends  the  reviewers,  those  chippers  and 
hewers, 
Are  judges  of  mortar  and  stone,  Sir; 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


133 


But  of  meet,  or  unmeet,  in  afabrick  complete, 
I'll  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none,  Sir. 

My  goose-quill   too   rude  is,  to  tell  all  }Tour 
goodness 
Bestow  "d  on  your  servant,  the  Poet ; 
Would  to  God  1  had  one  like  a  beam  of  the 
sun, 
And  then  all  the  world,  Sir,  should  know  it ! 


TERRAUGIITY,* 


ON    HIS    BIRTH-DAY. 

Health  to  the  Maxwells'  vet'ran  Chief  ! 
Health,  ay  unsour'd  by  care  or  grief: 
Inspir'd,  1  turn*d  Fate's  sibyl  leaf, 

This  natal  morn, 
I  see  thy  life  is  stuff  o'  prief, 

Scarce  quite  half  worn.— 

This  day  thou  metes  threescore  eleven, 
And  1  can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven 
(The  second  sight,  ye  ken,  is  given 

To  ilka  Poet) 
On  thee  a  tack  o1  seven  times  seven 

Will  yet  bestow  it. 

If  envious  buckies  view  wi'  sorrow, 

Thy  lengthen'd  days  on  this  blest  morrow, 

May  desolation's  lang-tceth'd  harrow, 

Nine  miles  an  hour, 
Rake  them,  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 

In  brunstane  stoure — 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  mony, 
Baith  honest  men  and  lasses  bonnie, 
May  couthie  fortune,  kind  and  cannie, 

In  social  glee, 
Wi'  mornings  blithe  and  e'enings  funny 

Bless  them  and  thee  ! 

Fareweel,  auld  birkie !  Lord  be  near  ye, 
And  then  the  Dei]  he  daur  na  steer  ye  : 
Your  friends  ay  love,  your  faes  ay  fear  ye, 

For  me,  shame  fa'  me. 
If  neist  my  heart  I  dinna  wear  ye, 

While  Burns  they  ca'  me. 


TO  A  LADY, 


With  a  Present  of  a  Pair  of  Drinking-G  lasses. 

Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul, 
And  Queen  of  Poetesses; 

*  Mr.  Maxwell,  of  Terrauglity,  near  Dumfries. 


Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon, 
This  humble  pair  of  glasses. — 

And  till  them  high  with  generous  juice, 

As  generous  as  your  mind  ; 
And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast — 

"  The  whole  of  human  kind  /'' 

"  To  those  who  lore  us .'" — second  fill ; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love ; 
Lest  wclovc  those  who  love  not  us! 

A  tliird — "  to  thee  and  me,  love .'" 


THE  VOWELS. 


'Twas  where  the  birch  and  sounding  thonwaro 

phed 
The  noisy  domicile  of  pedant  pride  ; 
Where  ignorance  her  darkening  vapour  throws, 
And  cruelty  directs  the  thickening  blows  ; 
Upon  a  time,  Sir  Abece  the  great, 
In  all  his  pedagogic  powers  elate 
His  awful  chair  of  state  resolves  to  mount, 
And  call  the  trembling  vowels  to  account. 

First  enter'd  A,  a  grave,  broad,  solemn  wight, 
But,  ah  !  deform'd,  dishonest  to  the  sight ! 
His  twisted  head  look'd  backward  on  his  way, 
And  flagrant  from  the  scourge,  he  grunted,  ail 

Reluctant,  E  stalk'd  in  ;  with  piteous  grace 
The  justling  tears  ran  down  his  honest  face  ! 
That  name,  that  well-worn  name,  and  all  his 

own, 
Pale  he  surrenders  at  the  tyrant's  throne  ! 
The  pedant  stifles  keen  the  Roman  sound 
Not  all  his  mongrel  diphthongs  can  compound ; 
And  next  the  title  following  close  behind, 
He  to  the  nameless,  ghastly  wretch  assign'd. 

The  cobweb 'd  gothic  dome  resounded,  Y  ! 
In  sullen  vengeance,  I,  disdam'd,  reply  : 
The  pedant  swung  his  felon  cudgel  round, 
And    knock*d    the    groaning    vowel    to    the 
ground ! 

In  rueful  apprehension  enter'd  O, 
The  wailing  minstrel  of  despairing  wo ; 
Th'  Inquisitor  of  Spain  the  most  expert, 
Might  there  have  learnt  new  mysteries  of  his 

art: 
So  grim,  deform'd,  with  horrors  entering  U, 
His  dearest  friend  and  brother  scarcely  knew '. 

As  trembling  U  stood  staring  all  aghast, 
The  pedant  in  his  left  hand  clutch'd  him  fast, 
In  helpless  infant's  tears  he  dipp'd  his  right, 
Baptiz'd  him  eu,  and  kick'd  him  from  his  sight. 


134 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


SKETCH.* 


A  LinxE,  upright,  port,  tart,  tripping  wight, 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight ; 
Who  loves  his  own  smart  shadow  in  the  streets, 
Better  than  e'er  the  fairest  she  hn  meets, 
A  man  of  fashion  too,  he  made  his  tour, 
Lcarn'd  rive  la  bagatelle,  el  vire  Vamour; 
So  travelFd  monkeys  their  grimace  improve, 
Polish  their  grin,  nay,  sigh  for  ladies.'  love. 
Much  specious  lore,  but  little  understood  ; 
Veneering  oft  outshines  the  solid  wood  : 
His  solid  sense — by  inches  you  must  tell, 
But  mete  his  cunning  by  the  old  Scots  ell ; 
His  meddling  vanity,  a  busy  fiend, 
Still  making  work  his  selfish  craft  must  mend. 


SCOTS  PROLOGUE, 
For  Mr.  Sutherland's  Benefit  Night,  Dumfries. 


What  needs  this  din  about  the  town  o'  Lon'on, 
How    this  new  play  an'   that  new   sang  is 

comin? 
Why  is  outlandish  stufFsae  meikle  courted  ? 
Does  nonsense  mend  like  whisky,  when  im- 
ported ? 
Is  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for  fame, 
Will  try  to  gie  us  sangs  and  plays  at  hame? 
For  comedy  abroad  he  need  na  toil, 
A  fool  and  knave  are  plants  of  every  soil ; 
Nor  need  he  hunt  as  far  as  B.oom  and  Greece 
To  gather  matter  for  a  serious  piece  ; 
There's  themes  enough  in  Caledonian  story, 
Would  show  the  tragic  muse  in  a' her  glory. — 

Is  there  no  daring  bard  will  rise,  and  tell 
How   glorious    Wallace   stood,  how,   hapless, 

fell? 
Where  are  the  muses  fled  that  could  produce 
A  drama  worthy  o'  the  name  o'  Bruce ; 
How  here,  even  here,  he  first  unsheath'd  the 

sword 
'Gainst  mighty  England  and  her  guilty  lord ; 


♦This  sketch  seems  to  be  one  of  a  Series,  intended  for 
a  projected  work,  under  the  title  o('  "  The  Poet's  Pro- 
gress." This  character  was  sent  .-is  a  specimen,  ac- 
companied by  a  letter  to  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  in 
which  it  is  thus  noticed.  "The  fragment  beginnings 
little,  upright,  pert,  tart,  Ice.  I  have  not  shown  to 
any  man  living,  till  I  now  send  it  to  j  ou.  It  forms  the 
postulata,  the  axioms,  the  di  finition  of  a  character, 
which,  it  it  appear  at  all,  shall  be  plai  ed  in  a  i 
lights.  This  particular  part  I  send  you  men  ly  as  a 
cample  of  my  hand  at  portrait  sketching." 


And  after  mony  a  bloody,  deathless  doing, 
Wrench'd  his  dear  country  from  the  jaws  of 

ruin  ? 
O  for  a  Shakspeare  or  an  Otway  scene, 
To  draw  the  lovely,  hapless  Scottish  Queen ! 
Vain  all  th'  omnipotence  of  female  charms 
'Gainst    headlong,  ruthless,  mad  Rebellion's 

arms. 
She  fell,  but  fell  with  spirit  truly  Roman, 
To  glut  the  vengeance  of  a  rival  woman  : 
A  woman,  tho'  the  phrase  may  seem  uncivil, 
As  able  and  as  cruel  as  the  Devil ! 
( )ne  Douglas  lives  in  Home's  immortal  page, 
But  Douglases  were  heroes  every  age : 
And  tho'  your  lathers,  prodigal  of  life, 
A  Douglas  followed  to  tho  martial  strife, 
Perhaps  if  bo  wis  ru\v  rial  it,  and  Bight  succeeds, 
Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a  Douglas  leads  I 


As  ye  hae  generous  done,  if  a'  the  land 
Would  take  the  muses'  servants  by  the  hand ; 
Not  only  hear,  but  patronise,  befriend  them, 
And  where  ye  justly  can  commend,  commend 

them 
And  aiblins  when  they  winna  stand  the  test, 
Wink  hard  and  say,  the  folks  hae  done  their 

best! 
Would  a'  the  land  do  this,  then  I'll  be  caution 
Ye'll  soon  hae  poets  o'  the  Scottish  nation. 
Will  gar  fame  blaw  until  her  trumpet  crack, 
And  warsle  time  an'  lay  him  on  his  back ! 


For  us  and  for  our  stage  should  ony  spier, 
"Whose  aught  thae  thiols  maks  a'  this  bustle 

here?" 
My  best  leg  foremost,  I'll  set  up  my  brow, 
We  have  the  honour  to  belong  to  you  ! 
We're  your  own  bairns,  e'en  guide  us  as  ye  like, 
But  like  good  mithers,  shore  before  ye  strike, — 
And  gratefu'  still  I  hope  ye'll  ever  find  us, 
For  a'  the  patronage  and  meikle  kindness 
We've  go1  frae  a"  professions,  sets  and  ranks: 
God  help  us !   we're  but  poor — ye'se  get  but 
thanks. 


EXTEMPORANEOUS   EFFUSION 


APPOINTED  TO  THE  EXCISE. 


Searching  auld  wives'  barrels 

Och,  ho!  the  day! 
That  clarty  barm  should  stain  m}' laurels 

But — what  "1!  yr  say  ! 
These  muvin' things  ca'd  wives  and  weans 
Wad  mine  the  very  hearts  o'  stanos  ' 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


135 


On  seeing  the  beautiful  Seat  of  Lord  G. 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair  ! 

Flit,  G ,  and  find 

Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave, 

The  picture  of  thy  mind  I 


On  the  Same. 


No  Stewart  art  thou  G , 

The  Stewarts  all  were  brave ; 

Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fools, 
Not  one  of  them  a  knave. 


On  the  Same. 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  O  G , 

Thro'  many  a  far-fam'd  sire ! 

So  ran  the  far-fam'd  Roman  way, 
So  ended  in  a  mire. 


To  the  Same,  on  the  Author  being  threatened 
with  his  Resentment. 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  G , 

In  quiet  let  me  live : 
I  ask  no  kindness  at  thy  hand, 

For  thou  hast  none  to  give. 


THE  DEAN  OF  FACULTY. 


A    NEW    BALLAD. 

Tune—"  The  Dragon  of  Wantley." 

Dire  was  the  hate  at  old  Harlaw, 

That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry ; 
And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw, 

For  beauteous,  hapless  Mary  : 
But  Scot  with  Scot  ne'er  met  so  hot, 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen,  Sir, 
Than  'twixt  Hal  and  Bob  for  the  famous  job — 

Who  should  be  Faculty's  Dean,  Sir. — 


This  Hal  for  genius,  wit,  and  lore, 

Among  the  first  was  mitnbcr'd; 
But  pious  Bdb,  'mid  learning's  store, 

Commandment  tenth  rcinember'd. — 
Yet  simple  Bob  the  victory  got, 

And  won  his  heart's  desire; 
Which  shows  that  heaven  can  boil  the  pot, 

Though  the  devil  p — s  in  the  fire. — 


Squire  Hal,  besides,  had  in  this  case, 

Pretensions  rather  brassy, 
For  talents  to  deserve  a  place 

Are  qualifications  saucy ; 
So  their  worships  of  the  Faculty, 

Quite  sick  of  merit's  rudeness, 
Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d'ye  see, 

To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. 

As  once  on  Pisgah  purg'd  was  the  sight 

Of  a  son  of  Circumcision, 
So  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height, 

Rob's  purblind,  mental  vision : 
Nay,  Bobby's  mouth  may  be  open'dyet, 

Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him, 
And  swear  he  has  the  Angel  met 

That  met  the  Ass  of  Balaam. — 


EXTEMPORE  LN  THE  COURT  OF 
SESSION. 

Tune — "  Gillicrankic." 


He  clench'd  his  pamphlets  in  liis  fist, 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted, 
Till  in  a  declamation-mist, 

His  argument  he  tint  it : 
He  gaped  for  't,  he  graped  for  't, 

He  fand  it  was  awa,  man ; 
But  what  his  common  sense  came  short, 

He  eked  out  wi'  law,  man. 


MR.   ER — NE. 

Collected  Harry  stood  awee, 

Then  open'd  out  his  arm,  man ; 
His  lordship  sat  wi'  ruefu'  e'e, 

And  ey'd  the  gathering  storm,  man ; 
Like  wind-driv'n  bail  it  did  assail, 

Or  torrents  owre  a  lin,  man  ; 
The  Bench  sae  wise  lift  up  their  eyes 

Half-wauken'd  wi'  the  din,  man. 


136 


VERSES  TO  J. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 
RANKEN. 


[The  Person  lo  whom  his  Poem  on  shooting  the 
Partridge  is  addressed,  while Ranken  occupied 
the  Farm  of  Adamhill,  in  Ayrshire.] 

Af.  day.  as  Death,  that  gruesome  carl, 
Was  driving  to  the  tither  warl 
A  mixtie-maxtie  motley  squad. 
And  mony  a  guilt-bespotted  lad ; 
Black  gowns  of  each  denomination, 
And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station, 
From  him  that  wears  the  star  and  garter, 
To  him  that  wintles*  in  a  halter  : 
Asham'd  himself  to  see  the  wretches, 
lie  mutters,  glow'rin  at  the  bitches, 
"  By  G-d  Til  not  be  seen  behmt  them, 
Nor  'mang  the  sp'ritual  core  present  them, 

Without,  a.1  leasl  ae  h st  man, 

To  [jrace  'his  d d  internal  elan." 

By  Adamhill  a  glance  he  threw, 
"L — d  G-d  !"  quoth  he,  "  I  have  it  now 
There's  just  the  man  I  want,  in  faith," 
And  quickly  stoppit  Ranken1  s  breath. 


On  hearing  that  there  was  Falsehood  in  the  Rev. 
Dr.  B 's  very  Looks. 

That  tliere  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 

1  must  and  will  deny  : 
They  say  their  master  is  a  knave — 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


On  a  Schoolmaster  in  Cleish  Parish,  Fifeshire. 

Here  lie  Willie  M — hie's  banes, 

O  Satan,  when  ye  tak  him, 
Gie  him  the  schuhn  of  your  weans  ; 

For  clever  Deils  he'll  mak  em  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  GENERAL  DUMOURIER. 

(a   PARODY  ON  ROBIN  ADAIR.) 

You're  welcome  to  Despots.  Dumourier  ; 
You're  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier. — 
How  does  Dampiere  do? 
Ay,  and  Bournonville  too ?  [ourier? 

Why  did  they  not  come  along  with  you,  Dum- 


*  The  word  TVivtlr,  denotes  udden  and  involuntary 
motion.  In  the  ludicrous  sensi  In  which  it  is  here  an 
plied,  it  may  be  admirably  translated  by  the  vulgar 
London  expression  of  Dancing  upon  nothing. 


I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier,— 
I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier: — > 
I  willfight  France  with  you, 
I  will  take  my  chance  with  you; 
By  my  soul  I'll  dance  a  dance  with  you,  Dum- 
ourier. 

Then  let  as  fighl  about,  Dumourier; 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier; 

Then  let  us  fight  about, 

Till  freedom's  spark  is  out, 

Then  we'll  be  d-mned  no  doubt — 'Dumourier. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  YEAR  1788. 


A    SKETCH. 

For  Lords  or  Kings  I  dinna  mourn, 
E'en  let  them  die — for  that  they're  born  : 
But  oh  !  prodigious  to  reficc' ! 
A  Towmont,  Sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck! 
0  Eighty-eight,  in  thy  sma'  space 
Whal  dire  events  hae  taken  place! 
Ofwhal  enjoyments  thou  hast  reft  us! 
In  what  a  pickle  thou  hast  left  us  ! 


The  Spanish  empire  's  tint  a  head, 
An'  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie's  dead; 
The  tulzie  's  teugh  'tween  Pitt  an'  Fox, 
And  'tween  our  Maggie's  twa  wee  cocks  ; 
The  tane  is  game,  a  bluidie  devil, 
But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil ; 
The  tither's  something  dour  o'  treadin, 
But  better  stuff  ne'er  claw'd  a  midden — ■ 


Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  poupet, 
An'  cry  till  ye  be  haerse  an'  roupit, 
For  Eighty-eight,  he  wish'd  you  wcel, 
An'  gied  you  a'  baith  gear  an'  meal ; 
E'en  mony  a  plack,  and  mony  a  peck, 
Ye  ken  yoursels,  for  little  feck  ! 

Ye  bonnie  lasses,  dight  youreen, 
For  some  o'  you  hae  tint  a  frien' ; 
In  Eighty-eighUje  ken.  was  ta'en 
What  ye  11  ne'er  hae  to  gie  again. 

Observe  the  very  nowt  an'  sheep, 
How  dowf  and  dowie  now  they  creep; 
Nay,  even  the  yirtb  itsel  does  cry, 
ForE'nbrugh  wells  are  grutten  dry. 


O  Eighty-nine,  thou's  bul  a  bairn, 

An'  no  o'er  auld,  I  hope,  lo  learn  ! 
Thou  beardless  boy,  1  pray  tak  care, 
Thou  now  has  got  thy  Daddy's  (hair 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


137 


Nae  hand-cufF'd,mizzrd,hap-shackrd  Regent, 
But,  like  himsel,  a  full  free  agent. 
Bo  suro  ye  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  man  ; 
As  mucklc  better  as  you  can. 

January  1, 1789. 


VERSES 

TVritlen  under  the  Portrait  of  Fergusson,  the 
Poet,  in  a  copy  of  that  author's  works  prt  sentt  d 
to  a  young  Lady  in  Editiburgh,  March  Id, 
1787. 

Curse  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be  pleas'd, 
And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the  pleasure  ! 
O  thou  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune, 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muses, 
With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 
Why  is  the  bard  unpitfed  by  the  world, 
Yet  has  so  keen  a  relish  of  its  pleasures  ? 


SONGS. 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY.* 

Up  in  the  morning- s  no  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early ; 
When  a'  the  hills  are  covered  wV  maw, 

I'm  sure  ifs  winter  fairly. 

Cold  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west, 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly  ; 
Sae  loud  and  shrill's  I  hear  the  blast, 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

The  birds  sit  chittering  in  the  thorn, 

A'  day  they  fare  but  sparely  ; 
And  lang's  the  night  frae  e'en  to  morn, 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Up  in  the  morning,  kc. 


SONG. 

I  DREAM'D  I  LAY  WHERE  FLOWERS 
WERE  SPRINGING.t 

I  dream'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were  springing, 
Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam ; 

*  The  chorus  is  old. 
t  These  two  stanzas  I  composed  when  T  was  seven- 
teen, and  are  among  the  oldest  of  my  printed  pieces. 
Burns'  Rcliques,  p.  2-12. 

K2 


List'ning  to  the  wild  birds  singing, 

By  a  Falling, crystal  stream; 
Straight  the  sky  erev)  black  and  daring; 

Thro'  the  woods  the  whirlwinds  rave  ; 
Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring 

O'er  the  swelling,  drumlie  wave. 

Such  was  my  life's  deceitful  morning, 

Such  the  pleasures  I  enjoy'd  ; 
But  lang  or  noon,  loud  tempests  storming 

A'  my  flow'ry  bliss  destroy 'd. 
Tho'  tickle  fortune  has  deceived  me, 

She  promis'd  fair,  and  perform'd  but  ill ; 
Of  inony  a  joy  and  hope  bercav'd  me, 

I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 


SONG.* 
BEWARE  O'  BONNIE  ANN. 

Ye  gallants  bright  I  red  you  right, 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ann  ; 
Her  comely  face  sae  fu1  o'  grace, 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 
Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night, 

Her  skin  is  like  the  swan  ; 
Sae  jimply  lae'd  her  genty  waist, 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  grace,  and  love,  attendant  move, 

And  pleasure  leads  the  van  : 
In  a'  their  charms,  and  conquering  arms, 

They  wait  on  bonnie  Ann. 
The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  hands, 

But  love  enslaves  the  man  ; 
Ye  gallants  braw,  1  red  ye  a', 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ami. 


SONG. 

MY  BONNIE  MARY.t 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 

An'  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie ; 
That  I  may  drink  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie  ; 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith  ; 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  lea'e  my  bonnie  Mary. 

*I  composed  this  song  out  of  compliment  to  Miss  Ann 
Masterton,  the  daughter  of  my  friend  Allan  Masterton, 
the  author  of  the  air  of  Btrathallan's  Lament,  and  two 
or  three  others  in  this  work.     Burns'  Religues,  p.  206. 

t  This  air  is  Oswald's  ;  the  first  half-stanza  of  the 
song  is  old. 


138 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  gflitterinir  spears  are  ranked  ready  ; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody  ; 
But  it's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

\\  ad  make  me  longer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar, 

It1s  leaving  thee,  my  boiuhe  Mary. 


SONG. 


THERE'S  A  YOUTH  IN  THIS  CITY.* 


There's  a  youth  in  this  city,  it  were  a  great 

pity 

That  he  from  our  lasses  should  wander  awa ; 
For    he's    bonnie    and    braw,    wcel-favour'd 
with  a', 
And  his  hair  has  a  natural  buckle  and  a'. 
His  coat  is  the  hue  of  his  bonnet  sae  blue ; 

I  lis  fecket  is  white  as  the  new-driven  snaw  ; 
His  hose  Ihey  arc  blae,  and  his  shoon  like  the 
slao, 
And  his  clear  siller  buckles  they  dazzle  us  a'. 
His  coat  is  the  hue,  &zc. 

For   beauty   and    fortune   the   laddie's   been 
courtin ; 
Weel-featur'd,  wecl-tocher'd,  weel-mounted 
and  braw  ; 
But  chiefly  the  siller,  that  gars  him  gang  till 
her, 
The  pennie's  the  jewel  that  beautifies  a'. — 
There's  Meg  wi'  the  mailen,  that  fain  wad  a 
haen  him, 
And  Susy  whase  daddy  was  Laird  o'  the  ha1 ; 
There's  lang-tochcr'd  Nancy  maist  fetters  Ins 
fancy, 
— But  the  laddie's  dear  sol  he  lo'es  dearest 
of  a'. 


SONG. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS.t 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here  ; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  a-chasing  the 

deer; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 

*  This  air  is  claimed  by  Niel  Gow,  who  calls  it  his 
lament  for  his  brother.  The  first  half  stanza  of  the 
song  is  old. 

t  The  first  half-stanza  is  old. 


Farewell    to   the   Highlands,  farewell  to  the 

North 
The  birth-place    of  vaiour,   the   country   of 

worth  ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with 
snow ; 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  be- 
low :       , 

Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging 
woods ; 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud  pouring 
floods. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 
here, 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 
deer  : 

Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go. 


SONG.* 

THE  RANTIN  DOG  THE  DADDIE  O'T. 

O  wha  my  babie-clouts  will  buy  ? 
YVha  will  tent  me  when  I  cry  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  inc  whare  I  lie  ? 
The  rantin  dog  the  daddie  o't. — 

Wha  will  own  he  did  (he  faut  ? 
Wha  will  buy  my  groanin-maut? 
Wha  will  tell  me  how  to  ca't  ? 
The  rantin  dog  the  daddie  o't. 

When  I  mount  the  creepie-chair, 
Wha  will  sit  beside  me  there  ? 
Gie  me  Rob,  1  seek  nae  mair, 
The  rantin  do£  the  daddie  o't.— 


Wha  will  crack  to  me  my  lane? 
Wha  will  mak  me  fidgin  fain  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  me  o'er  again  ? 
The  rantin  do<r  the  daddie  o't.— 


SONG. 


I  DO  CONFESS  THOU  ART  SAE 
FAIR.t 

I  no  confess  thou  art  sae  fair, 

1  wad  been  o'er  the  lugs  in  luve ; 

*  I  composed  this  song  pretty  early  in  life,  and  sent 
it  to  a  young  girl,  a  very  particular  acquaintance  of 
mine,  who  was  at  that  time  under  a  cloud. 

Burns'1  Rcliqvrs,  p  278. 
fThis  song  is  altered  from  a  poem  by  Sir  Robert  Ayton. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


139 


Had  I  na  found  the  slightest  prayer 
That    lips   could   speak,    thy   heart   could 
muve. 

I  do  confess  thee  sweet,  but  find 

Tliou  art  sao  thriftless  o'  thy  sweets, 

Thy  favours  are  tlie  silly  wind 
That  kisses  ilka  thing  it  meets. 

See  yonder  rose-bud,  rich  in  dew, 

Amang  its  native  briers  aae  coy 
How  sune  it  tines  its  scent  and  hue 

When  pu'd  and  worn  a  common  toy  ! 

Sic  fate  ere  lang  shall  thee  betide, 
Tho'  thou  may  gayly  bloom  a  while  ; 

Yet  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside, 
Like  ony  common  weed  and  vile. 


SONG.* 

Tcne — "  Craigie-burn  Wood."t 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee,  dearie, 
And  O  to  be  lying  beyond  thee, 

0  sweetly,  soundly,  voeel  may  he  sleep, 
That's  laid  in  the  bed  beyond  thee. 

Sweet   closes   the  evening  on  Craigie-bum- 
wood, 
And  blithly  awakens  the  morrow  ; 
But  the  pride   of  the  spring  in  the  Craigie- 
burn-wood 
Can  yield  to  me  nothing  but  sorrow. 
Beyond  thee,  Sec. 

I  see  the  spreading  leaves  and  flowers, 

1  hear  the  wild  birds  singing  ; 
But  pleasure  they  hae  nane  for  me, 

While  care  my  heart  is  wringing. 
Beyond  thee,  Sec. 

private  secretary  to  Mary  and  Anne,  queens  of  Scotland. 
—The  poem  is  to  be  found  in  James  Watson's  Collec- 
tion of  Scots  Poems,  the  earliest  collection  printed  in 
Scotland.— I  think  that  1  have  improved  the  simplicity 
of  the  sentiments,  by  giving  them  a  Scots  dress. 

Burns'  Reliqucs,  p.  202. 

*  It  is  remarkable  of  this  place  that  it  is  the  confine 
of  that  country  where  the  greatest  part  of  our  Lowland 
music  (so  far  as  from  the  title,  words,  &c.  we  can  lo- 
calize it)  has  been  composed.  From  Craigie-burn,  near 
Moffat,  until  one  reaches  the  West  Highlands,  we  have 
scarcely  one  slow  air  of  any  antiquity. 

The  song  was  composed  on  a  passion  which  a  Mr. 
Gillespie,  a  particular  friend  of  mine,  had  for  a  Miss 
Lorimer,  afterwards  a  Mrs.  Whelpdale.  The  young 
lady  was  born  at  Craigie-burn-wood- — The  chorus  is 
part  of  an  old  foolish  ballad. 

Burns'  Reliques,  p.  284. 

t  The  chorus  is  old.— Another  copy  of  this  will  be 
found,  ante,  p.  101 


I  canna  tell,  I  maunna  tell, 
I  daro  na  for  your  anger  ; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart, 
If  I  conceal  it  langer. 

Beyond  thee,  Sec. 

I  see  thee  gracefu',  straight  and  tall, 
I  see  thee  sweet  and  bonnie, 

But  oh,  what  will  my  torments  be, 
If  thou  refuse  thy  .Tohnie  ! 
Bt  yond  thee,  Sec. 

To  see  thee  in  anither's  arms, 
In  love  to  lie  and  languish, 

'Twad  be  my  dead,  that  will  be  seen, 
My  heart  wad  burst  wi'  anguish. 
Beyond  thee,  Sec. 

But  Jeanie,  say  thou  wilt  be  mine, 
Say,  thou  lo'es  nane  before  me  ; 

And  a1  my  days  o'  life  to  come 
I'll  gratefully  adore  thee. 

Beyond  thee,  Sec. 


SONG. 


YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS. 


Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide, 
That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the   youth  o'  the 

Clyde, 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro'  the 

heather  to  feed, 
And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes  on 

his  reed. 

Where  the  grouse,  Sec. 

Not  Gowrie's  rich  valley,  nor  Fortli's  sunny 

shores, 
To  me  hae  the  charms  o'  yon   wild,   mossy 

moors ; 
For  there,  by  a  lanely,  and  sequester'd  stream, 
Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my 

dream. 

Amang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still  be  my 

path, 
Ilk  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green,  narrow 

strath ; 
For  there,  wi'  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I  rove, 
While  o'er  us  unheeded  fly  the  swift  hours  o' 

love. 

She  is  not  the  fairest,  altho'  she  is  fair ; 
O'  nice  education  but  smaJ  is  her  share  : 
I  for  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be; 
But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because   she   lo'es 
me. 


140 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield  him  a 

]'■ 
In  her   amour   of  glances,   ami   blushes,   and 

sighs; 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polished 

her  darts. 
They  dazzle  our  een,  as  they  flio  to  our  hearts. 

But  kindness,   sweet   kindness,   in   tho   fond 

sparkling  e'e. 
Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me  ; 
And  tho  heart-beating  love,  as  I'm  clasp'd  in 

her  arms, 
O,  these  are  my  lassie's  all-conquering  charms ! 


SONG. 

WHA  IS  THAT  AT  MY  BOWER 
DOOR? 

Wha  is  that  at  my  bower  door  ? 

O  wha  is  it  but  Findlay  ; 
Then  gae  your  gate  ye'se  nae  be  here  ! 

Indeed  maun  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
What  mak  ye  sae  like  a  thief.'' 

O  come  and  see,  quo'  Findlay  ; 
Before  the  morn  yc'il  work  mischief; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo1  Findlay. 

Gif  I  rise  and  let  you  in  ? 

Let  me  in,  quo'  Findlay  ; 
Ye'll  keep  me  waukin  wi'  your  din  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
In  my  bower  if  ye  should  stay  ? 

Let  me  stay,  quo'  Findlay  ; 
I  fear  yell  bide  till  break  o'  day  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

Here  this  night  if  ye  remain, 

I'll  remain,  quo'  Findlay  ; 
I  dread  ye'll  learn  the  gate  again  ; 

Indeed  will  1,  quo'  Findlay; 
What  may  pass  within  this  bower, 

Let  it  pass,  quo'  Findlay; 
Ye  maun  conceal  till  your  last  hour  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo1  Findlay  1 


SONG.* 
Tune—"  The  Weaver  and  his  Shuttle,  O." 

Mv  Father  was  a  Farmer  upon  tho  Carrick 

border,  O 
And  carefully  he  bred    me   in    decency    and 

order,  O 

*  This  song  is  wild  rhapsody,  miserably  deficient  in 
versification,  but  as  the  sentiments  are  the  genuine  feel- 
ings of  my  heart,  for  that  reason  I  have  a  particular 
pleasure  in  conning  it  over.      Burns'  Hclujues,  p.  329. 


lie  bade  me  act  a  manly  part,  though  I  had 

ne'er  a  farthing,  0 
For  without  an  honest  manly  heart,  no  man 

was  worth  regarding,  O. 


Then  out  into  the  world  my  course  I  did  deter- 
mine. O 

Tho'  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish,  yet  to  be 
great  was  charming,  O 

My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst ;  nor  yet 
my  education  ;  O 

Rcsolv'd  was  I,  at  least  to  try,  to  mend  my  situ- 
ation, O. 


In  many  a  way,  and  vain  essay,  I  courted  for- 
tune's favour ;  O 

Some  cause  unseen,  still  stept  between,  to  frus- 
trate each  endeavour  ;  O 

Sometimes  by  foes  I  was  o'erpower'd  ;  some- 
times by  friends  forsaken  ;  O 

And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top,  I  still  was 
wosrt  mistaken,  O. 


Then  sore  harass'd,  and  tir'd  at  last,  with  for- 
tune's vain  delusion  ;  O 

I  dropt  my  schemes,  like  idle  dreams,  and 
came  to  this  conclusion  ;  O 

The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid  ;  its 
good  or  ill  untried  ;   <  ) 

But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  pow'r,  and  so 
I  would  enjoy  it,  O. 


No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I ;  nor  person 
to  befriend  me  ;  O 

So  I  must  toil,  and  sweat  and  broil,  and  labour 
to  sustain  me  O, 

To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my  fa- 
ther bred  me  early  ;  O 

For  one,  he  said,  to  labour  bred,  was  a  match 
for  fortune  fairly,  O. 


Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor,  thro' 
life  Fin  doom'd  to  wander,  O 

Till  down  my  weary  bones  I  lay  in  everlasting 
slumber :  O 

No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate'er  might 
breed  mo  pain  or  sorrow  ;  O 

I  live  to-day,  as  well's  I  may,  regardless  of  to- 
morrow, O. 


But  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well,  as  a  monarch 

in  a  palace,  <  > 
Tho'  fortune's  frown  still  hunts  me  down,  with 

all  her  wonted  malice  ;  O 
J  make  indeed,  my  daily  bread,  but  ne'er  can 

make  it  farther  ;  O 
But  as  daily  bread  is  all  I  need,  I  do  not  much 

regard  her,  O. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


141 


When  sometimes  by  my  labour  I  earn  a  little 

money,  O 
Some  unforeseen  misfortune  comes  generally 

upon  me ; O 
Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect,  or  my  good- 

natur'd  folly ;  O 
But  come  what  will,   I've   sworn   it  still,  I'll 

ne'er  be  melancholy,  U. 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power  with 

unremitting  ardour,  O 
The  more  in  this  you  look  for  bliss,  you  leave 

your  view  the  farther ;  O 
Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts,  or  nations 

to  adore  you,  O 
A  cheerful  honest-hearted  clown  I  will  prefer 

before  you,  O. 


SONG. 


Tho'  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, 

As  far's  the  pole  and  line ; 
Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 

Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Tho'  mountains  frown  and  deserts  howl, 

And  oceans  roar  between  ; 
Yet,  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


SONG. 


Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
"Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 


I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy : 
But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her ; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sac  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love  and  pleasure ! 


Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  pledge  theo, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thec. 


SONG. 

NOW  BANK  AN'  BRAE  ARE 
CLAITH'D  IN  GREEN. 


Now  bank  an'  brae  are  claith'd  in  green 

An'  scatter'd  cowslips  sweetly  spring, 
By  Girvan's  fairy  haunted  stream 

The  birdies  flit  on  wanton  wing. 
To  Cassallis'  banks  when  e'ening  fa's, 

There  wi'  my  Mary  let  me  flee, 
There  catch  her  ilka  glance  of  love, 

The  bonnie  blink  o'  Mary's  e'e  ! 

The  child  wha  boasts  o'  warld's  wealth, 

Is  aften  laird  o'  meikle  care ; 
But  Mary  she  is  a'  my  ain, 

Ah,  fortune  canna  gie  me  mair  ! 
Then  let  me  range  by  Cassillis'  banks, 

Wi'  her  the  lassie  dear  to  me, 
And  catch  her  ilka  glance  o'  love, 

The  bonnie  blink  o'  Mary's  e'e ! 


SONG. 


THE  BONNIE  LAD  THAT'S  FAR 
AWA. 

O  how  can  I  be  blithe  and  glad, 
Or  how  can  I  gang  brisk  and  braw, 

When  the  bonnie  lad  that  I  lo'e  best 
Is  o'er  the  hills  and  far  awa  ? 


It's  no  the  frosty  winter  wind, 

It's  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw ; 

But  ay  the  tear  comes  in  my  e'e, 
To  think  on  him  that 's  far  awa. 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door, 

My  friends  they  hac  disown'd  me  a' 

But  I  hae  ane  will  tak  my  part, 
The  bonnie  lad  that  's  far  awa. 

A  pair  o'  gloves  he  gave  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gave  me  twa; 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 
The  bonnie  lad  that 's  far  awa. 


142 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


The  weary  winter  soon  will  pass, 

And  spring  will  clccd  the  birken-shaw ; 

And  my  sweet  babie  will  be  born, 
And  he'll  come  haine  that's  far  awa. 


SONG. 


Out  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north, 

But  what  is  the  north  and  its  Highlands  to 
me  ? 

The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my  breast, 
The  far  foreign  land,  or  the  wild  rolling  sea. 

But  I  look  to  the  west,  when  I  gae  to  rest, 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers 
may  be ; 

For  far  in  the  west  lives  he  I  lo'e  best, 
The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me. 


SONG. 


I'LL  AY  CA'  IN  BY  YON  TOWN. 

I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town, 

And  by  yon  garden  green,  again ; 

I'll  ay  ca'  in  by  yon  town, 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 

There's  nane  sail  ken,  there's  nane  sail  guess, 
What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again, 

But  she,  my  fairest  faithfu'  lass, 
And  stowlins  we  sail  meet  again. 

She'll  wander  by  the  aiken  tree, 
When  trystin-time*  draws  near  again  ; 

And  when  her  lovely  form  I  see, 
O  haith,  she's  doubly  dear  again  ! 


SONG. 
WHISTLE  O'ER  THE  LAVE  O'T. 

First  when  Maggy  was  my  care, 
Hcav'n,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air; 
Now  we're  married — spier  nae  mair — 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. — ■ 
Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg1  was  mild, 
Bonnie  Meg  was  nature's  child — 
—Wiser  men  than  me's  beguil'd  : 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 

*  Trystin-time— The  time  of  appointment 


How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me, 
How  we  love  and  how  we  'gree, 
I  care  na  by  how  few  may  see  ; 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. — . 
What  I  wish  were  maggot's  meat, 
Uish'd  up  in  her  winding  sheet, 
I  could  write — but  Meg  maun  see'( 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. — 


SONG. 

YOUNG  JOCKEY. 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad 

In  a'  our  town  or  here  awa ; 
Fu'  blithe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud, 

Fu'  lightly  dane'd  he  in  the  ha' ! 
He  roos'd  my  e'en  sae  bonnie  blue, 

He  roos'd  my  waist  sae  gently  sina ; 
An'  ay  my  heart  came  to  my  mou, 

When  ne'er  a  body  heard  or  saw. 

My  Jockey  toils  upon  the  plain, 

Thro'  wind  and  weet,  thro'  frost  and  snaw; 
And  o'er  the  Ice  I  leuk  fu'  fain 

When  Jockey's  owscn  hameward  ca', 
An'  ay  the  night  comes  round  again, 

When  in  his  arms  he  taks  me  a' : 
And  ay  he  vows  he'll  be  my  ain 

As  lang's  he  has  a  breath  to  draw. 


SONG. 
M'PHERSON'S  FAREWELL. 

Tune — "  MTherson's  Lament." 

Farewell  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretches  destinie ! 
M'Pherson's  time  will  not  be  long, 

On  yonder  gallows  tree. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  (tauntingly gaed  he ; 
He  ■play'd  a  spring  and  danced  it  round, 

Below  the  gallows  tree. 

Oh,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath  ? — 

On  mony  a  bloody  plain 
I've  dar'd  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yel  again  ! 
Sae  rantingly,  &c. 

Untie  these  bands  from  ofi'my  hands, 
And  bring  to  me  my  sword  ; 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


143 


And  there's  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland, 
But  1*11  brave  liim  at  a  word. 
Sae  raidingiy,  kc. 

I've  liv'd  a  life  of  start  and  strife  ; 

I  die  by  treacherie  : 
It  burns  my  heart  1  must  depart 

And  not  avenged  be. 
Sae  ranlingly,  kc. 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  beneath  the  sky  1 
Way  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die ! 
Sae  rantingly,  kc. 


SONG, 

Here's  a  bottle  and  an  honest  friend! 

What  wad  ye  wish  for  mair,  man  f 
Wha  kens,  before  his  life  may  end, 

What  his  share  may  be  of  care,  man? 
Then  catch  the  moments  as  they  fly, 

And  use  them  as  ye  ought,  man  : — ■ 
Believe  me,  happiness  is  shy, 

And  comes  not  ay  when  sought,  man. 


SONG. 


Tune — "  Braes  o'  Balquhidder." 


ril  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

Art  Vll  kiss  the  o'er  again, 

ArC  Vll  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 
My  bonnie  Peggy  Alison  ! 

Ilk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near, 

I  ever  mair  defy  them,  O ; 
Young  kings  upon  their  hansel  throne 

Are  no  sae  blest  as  I  am,  O  ! 
Vll  kiss  thee,  kc. 

When  in  my  arms,  wi'  a  thy  charms, 
I  clasp  my  countless  treasure,  O ; 

I  seek  nae  mair  o'  Heaven  to  share, 
Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure,  O  : 
Vll  kiss  thee,  kc. 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 
I  swear  I'm  thine  for  ever,  O  ; — 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 
And  break  it  shall  I  never,  O ! 
Vll  kiss  thee,  kc. 


SONG. 


Tone — "  If  he  be  a  Butcher  neat  and  trim." 


On  Cesenock  hanks  there  lives  a  lass, 
Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien; 

The  graces  of  her  weelfar'd  face, 
And  the  glancin  of  her  sparklin  een. 

She's  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen, 

When  dew-drops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

She's  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash, 
That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between, 

And  shoots  its  head  above  each  bush  ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

She's  spotless  as  the  flow'ring  thorn 
With  flow'rs  so  white  and  leaves  so  green, 

When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb, 
When  flow'ry  May  adorns  the  scene, 

That  wantons  round  its  bleating  dam ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 

That  shades  the  mountain-side  at  e'en, 

When  flow'r-reviving  rams  are  past ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

Her  forehead  's  like  the  show'ry  bow, 
When  shining  sunbeams  intervene 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  ev'ning  thrush 
That  sings  in  Cessnock  banks  unseen, 

While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

Her  lips  arc  like  the  cherries  ripe, 
That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen, 

They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 


Her  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 
With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean, 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 

Herbreath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom'd  bean. 

When  Phoebus  sinks  behind  the  seas ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin  sparklin  een. 


144 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


But  it's  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 
Tho'  matching  beauty's  fabled  queen, 

But  the  mind  that  shines  in  cv'ry  grace, 
An'  chiefly  in  her  sparklin  cen. 


WAE  IS  MY  HEART. 


Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear's  in  my  e'e  ; 
Lang,  lang  joy's  been  a  stranger  to  me  : 
Forsaken  and  friendless  my  burden  I  bear, 
And  the  sweet  voice  o'  pity  ne'er  sounds  in  my 
ear. 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasure;    and  deep  hae  I 

loved ; 
Love,  thou  hast  sorrows ;  and  sair  hae  I  proved  : 
But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in  my 

breast, 
I  can  feel  by  its  throbbings  will  soon  be  at  rest. 

O  if  I  were,  where  happy  I  hae  been ; 

Down  by  yon  stream  and  yon  bonnie  castle 

green : 
For  there  he  is  wand'ring  and  musing  on  me, 
Wha  wad  soon  dry  the  tear  frae  Phillis's  e'e. 


SONG, 
Tune—"  Banks  of  Banna." 


Yestreen  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine, 

A  place  where  body  saw  na' ; 
Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  o'  mine 

The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 
The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness 

Rejoicing  o'er  his  manna, 
Was  naething  to  my  hiney  bliss 

Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 

Ye  monarchs,  tak  the  east  and  west, 

Frae  Indus  to  Savanna  ! 
Gieme  within  my  straining  grasp 

The  melting  form  of  Anna. 
There  I'll  despise  imperial  charms, 

An  Empress  <>r  Sultana, 
While  dying  raptures  in  her  arms 

I  give  and  take  with  Anna  ! 

Awa  thou  flaunting  god  o"  day ! 

Awa  thou  pale  Diana  ! 
Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray 

When  I'm  to  meet  my  Anna. 


Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  night, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  withdrawn  a' ', 

And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 
My  transports  wi'  my  Anna ! 


SONG.* 

The  Deil  cam  fiddling  thro'  the  town, 
And  dane'd  awa  wi'  the  exciseman; 

And  ilka  wife  cry'd,  "  Auld  Mahoun, 
We  wish  you  luck  o'  the  prize  man. 

u  We'll  mdk  our  maul,  and  brew  our  drink, 
We'll  dance  and  sing  and  rejoice  man  ; 

And  many  thanks  to  the  muckle  black  Deil, 
That  danced  awa  wi  the  Exciseman. 

"  There's  threesome  reels,  and  foursome  reels, 
There's  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man; 

But  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam  to  our  Ian', 
Was — 'the  Deil's  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman. 
WeHl  mak  our  maut,  Sec." 


SONG. 

Powers  celestial,  whose  protection 

Ever  guards  tin'  virtuous  fair, 
While  in  distant  climes  I  wander, 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care: 
Let  her  form  sae  fair  and  faultless, 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own; 
Let  my  Mary's  kindred  spirit, 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down. 

Mak%  the  gales  you  waft  around  her, 

Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast; 
Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her 

Sooth  her  bosom  into  rest : 
Guardian  angels,  O  protect  her, 

When  in  distant,  lands  I  roam  ; 
To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  me, 

Make  her  bosom  still  my  borne. t 


HUNTING  SONG. 

I    RED    YOU    BEWARE    AT    THE    HUNTING. 

The  heather  was  blooming,  the  meadows  were 

mawn, 
Our  lads  gacd  a-hunting,  ao  day  at  the  dawn, 

*  At  a  meeting  of  his  brother  Excisemen  in  Dumfries, 
Hums,  being  called  upon  for  a  Song  handed  these  verses 
extempore  to  the  President  written  on  the  back  of  a 
letter. 

t  Trobably  written  on  Highland  Mary,  on  the  eve  of 
the  Tort's  departure  to  the  West  Indies. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


14£ 


O'or  moors  and  o'er  mosses  and  mony  a  glen, 
At  length  they  discovered  a  bonnic  moor-hen. 


/  red  you  beware  at  the  hunting,  young  men  ; 
/  red  you  beware  at  the  hunting,  young  men  ; 
Tak  some  on  the  wing,  and  some  as  they  spring, 
But  cannily  steal  on  the  bo?inie  moor-hen. 


Sweet  brushing  the  dew  from  the  brown  hea- 
ther bells, 
Her  colours  betray'd  her  on  yon  mossy  fells  ; 
Her  plumage  outlustred  the  pride  o'  the  spring. 
And  O  !  as  she  wantoned  gay  on  the  wing. 

/  red,  &cc. 


Auld  Phoebus  himsel,  as  he  peep'd   o'er  the 

hill ; 
In  spite  at  her  plumage  he  tried  Ins  skill ; 
He  levelTd  his  rays  where  she  bask'd  on  the 

brae— 
His  rays  were  outshone,  and  but  mark'd  where 

she  lay. 

J  red,  Sec. 


They  hunted  the  valley,  they  hunted  the  hill ; 
The  best  of  our  lads  wi'  the  best  o'  their  skill ; 
But  still  as  the  fairest  she  sat  in  their  sight, 
Then,  whirr  1  she  was  over,  a  mile  at  a  flight. — 

/  red,  Sec. 


YOUNG  PEGGY. 


Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 

Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 
The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass, 

With  early  gems  adorning  : 
Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 

That  gild  the  passing  shower, 
And  glitter  o'er  the  crystal  streams, 

And  cheer  each  fresh'ning  flower. 


Her  lips  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 

A  richer  die  has  grae'd  them, 
They  charm  th'  admiring  gazer's  sight, 

And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them  : 
Her  smile  is  as  the  ev'ning  mild, 

When  feather'd  pairs  are  courting, 
And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild, 

In  playful  bands  disporting. 


Were  Fortune  lovely  Peggy's  foe, 
Such  sweetness  would  relent  her, 

As  blooming  Spring  unbends  the  brow 
Of  surly,  savage  Winter. 


Detraction's  eyes  no  aim  can  gain 
Her  winning  powers  to  lessen  : 

And  fretful  envy  grins  in  vain, 
Tho  poison'd  tooth  to  fasten. 

Ye  pow'rs  of  Honour,  Love,  and  Truth, 

From  ev'ry  ill  defend  her ; 
Inspire  the  highly  favour'd  youth 

The  destinies  intend  her  ; 
Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame 

Responsive  in  each  bosom  ; 
And  bless  the  dear  parental  name 

With  many  a  filial  blossom.* 


SONG. 

Tune — "  The  King  of  France,  he  rade  a  Race." 

Amang  the  trees  where  humming  bees 

At  buds  and  flowers  were  hanging,  O 
Auld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone, 

And  to  her  pipe  was  singing  ;  O 
'Twas  pibroch,  sang,  strathspey,  or  reels, 

She  dirFd  them  aff,  fu1  clearly,  O 
When  there  cam  a  yell  o'  foreign  squeels, 

That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,  O — 

Their  capon  craws  and  queer  ha  ha's, 

They  made  our  lugs  grow  eerie,  O 
The  hungry  bike  did  scrape  an  pike 

Till  we  were  wae  and  weary ;  O — ■ 
But  a  royal  ghaist  wha  ance  was  cas'd 

A  prisoner  aughteen  year  awa, 
He  fir'd  a  fiddler  in  the  North 

That  dang  them  tapsalteerie,  O 


SONG. 
Tune — "  John  Anderson  my  Jo. 

One  night  as  I  did  wander, 

When  corn  begins  to  shoot, 
I  sat  me  down  to  ponder, 

Upon  an  auld  tree  root : 
Auld  Aire  ran  by  before  me, 

And  bicker'd  to  the  seas  ; 
A  cushat  crowded  o'er  me 

That  echoed  thro'  the  braes. 


*  This  was  one  of  the  Poet's  earliest  compositions. 
It  is  copied  from  a  MS.  book,  Which  lie  had  btforehis 
first  publication. 


146 


BURNS'  POEMS, 


SONG. 


Tune — "  Daintie  Davie." 


There  was  a  lad  was  born  at  Kyle,* 
But  what  na  day  o'  what  na  style 
I  doubt  it's  hardly  worth  the  While 
To  be  sae  nice  wi'  Robin. 


Robin  was  a  rovin'  Boy, 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin'  ; 

Robin  was  a  rovin1  Boy, 
Rantin'  rovin'  Robin. 

Our  monarch's  hindmost  year  but  ane 
"Was  five  and  twenty  days  begun, 
'Twas  then  a  blast  o'  Janwar  Win' 
Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip  keekit  in  his  loof, 
Quo'  scho  wha  lives  will  see  the  proof, 
This  waly  boy  will  be  nae  coof, 
I  think  we'll  ca'  him  Robin. 

He'll  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma', 
But  ay  a  heart  aboon  them  a' ; 
He'll  be  a  credit  till  us  a', 
We'll  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin. 

But  sure  as  three  times  three  mak  nine, 
I  see  by  ilka  score  and  line, 
This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin', 
So  leeze  me  on  thee,  Robin. 


Guid  faith  quo'  scho  I  doubt  you,  Sir, 
Ye  gar  the  lasses    *    *    *    * 
But  twenty  fauts  ye  may  hae  waur 
So  blessin's  on  thee,  Robin  J 


Robin  was  a  rovin  Boy, 

Rantin''  rovin1,  rantin'  rovin' ; 
Robin'  was  a  rovin'  Boy, 

Rantin'  rovin'  Robin. 


SONG. 


Tune — "  I  had  a  Horse  and  I  had  nae  mair." 

When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 

My  mind  it  was  nae  steady, 
Where'er  I  gaed,  whare'er  1  rado 

A  mistress  still  I  had  ay  : 

*  Kyle— a.  district  of  Ayrshire. 


But  when  I  came  roun'  by  Mauchline  tc 

Not  dreadin'  any  body, 
My  heart  was  caught  before  I  thought, 

And  by  a  Mauchline  lady. 


SONG. 


Tcne— "  Galla  Water." 

Altho'  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir, 
Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie, 

Yet  happy,  happy  would  I  be 

Had  I  my  dear  Montgomerie's  Peggy.— 

When  o'er  the  hill  beat  surly  storms, 
And  winter  nights  were  dark  and  rainy ; 

I'll  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 

I'd  shelter  dear  Montgomerie's  Peggy.— 

Were  I  a  Baron  proud  and  high, 

And  horse  and  servants  waiting  ready, 

Then  a'  'twad  gie  o'  joy  to  me, 
The  sharin't  with  Montgomerie's  Peggy.- 


SONG. 

O  raging  fortune's  withering  blast 

Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low  !  O 
O  raging  fortune's  withering  blast 

Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low  !  O. 
My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green 

My  blossom  sweet  did  blow ;  O 
The  dew  fell  fresh,  the  sun  rose  mild, 

And  made  my  branches  grow ;  O. 
But  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  O 
But  luckless  fortune's  northern  storms 

Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  O. 


SONG. 


PATRIOTIC— unfinished. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa ; 
And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cause, 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa'. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


147 


It's  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise, 
It's  guid  to  be  honest  and  true, 
It's  guid  to  support,  ( 'aledonia's  cause, 
And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa  ; 

Here's  a  health  to  Charlie,41  the  chief  o'  the  clan, 

Altho'  that  his  hand  lie  but  sma'. 

May  liberty  meet  wi'  success  ! 

May  prudence  protect  her  frae  evil ! 

May  tyrants  and  tyranny  line  in  the  mist, 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil  ! 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

Here's  a  health  to  Tammict  the  Norland  lad- 

That  lives  at  the  lug  o'  the  law  !  [die, 

1 1 (  re's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read, 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write  ! 

There's  nane  ever  fear'd  that  the  truth  should 

be  heard, 
But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indict. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
Here's  Chieftain  M'Leod,  a  Chieftain  worth 

gowd, 
Tho'  bred  amang  mountains  o'  snaw  ! 


SONG. 

THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

As  I  was  a-wand'ring  ae  morning  in  spring, 
I  heard  a  young  Flouglmmn  sae  sweetly  to 

sing, 
And  as  he  was  singin'  thir  words  he  did  say, 
There's  nae  life  like  the  Ploughman  in   the 

month  o'  sweet  May — 

The  lav'rock  in  the  morning  she'll  rise  frae  her 
nest,  [breast, 

And   mount   to   the  air  wi'  the  dew  on  her 

And  wi'  the  merry  Ploughman  she'll  whistle 
and  sing, 

And  at  night  she'll  return  to  her  nest  back 
again. 


SONG. 


Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  wing, 
Adown  her  neck  and  bosom  hing ; 

How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling, 
And  round  that  neck  entwine  her  ! 


Her  lips  arc  roses  wat  wi'  dew, 
(),  what  a  feast,  her  bonnie  mou  ! 

Her  cheeks  a  mair  celestial  hue, 
A  crimson  still  diviner. 


♦C.  Fox. 


t  Lord  Erskine. 


BALLAD. 


To  thee,  lov'd  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plains, 
Where  late  wi'  careless  thought  I  rang'd, 

Though  prest  wi'  care  and  sunk  in  wo, 
To  thee  1  bring  a  heart  unuhang'd. 

I  love  thee,  Nith,  thy  banks  and  braes, 
Tho'  mem'ry  there  my  bosom  tear  ; 

For  there  he  rov'd  that  brake  my  heart, 
Yet  to  that  heart,  ah,  still  how  dear ! 


SONG, 


The  winter  it  is  past,  and  the  simmer  comes  at 
last, 

And  the  small  birds  sing  on  every  tree  ; 
Now  every  thing  is  glad,  while  I  am  very  sad, 

Since  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 

The  rose  upon  the  brier  by  the  waters  running 
clear, 
May  have  charms  for  the  linnet  or  the  bee  ; 
Their  little  loves  are  blest,  and  their  little  hearts 
at  rest, 
But  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 


GUIDWTFE  OF  WAUCHOPE-HOUSE 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

February,  1787. 

My  canty,  witty,  rhyming  ploughman, 
1  hanlins  doubt,  it  is  na  true  man, 
That  ye  between  the  stilts  were  bred, 
Wi'  ploughmen  school'd,  wi'  ploughmen  fed. 
I  doubt  it  sair,  ye've  drawn  your  knowledge 
Either  frae  grammar-school,  or  college. 
Guid  troth,  your  saul  and  body  baith 
War'  better  fed,  I'd  gie  my  aith, 
Than  theirs,  who  sup  sour-milk  and  parritch, 
An'  bummil  thro'  the  single  caritch, 
Wha  ever  heard  the  ploughman  speak. 
Could  tell  gif  Homer  was  a  Greek? 


148 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


He'd  flee  as  soon  upon  a  cudgel, 

As  get  a  single  lino  of  Virgil. 

An'  then  sae  slee  ye  crai  I    pour  jokes 

()"  Willie  F— t  and  Charlie  F— x. 

Our  great  men  a'  sac  weel  descrive, 

An'  how  to  gar  the  nation  thrive, 

Ane  maist  wad  swear  ye  dwalt  amang  them, 

An'  as  ye  saw  them,  sae  ye  sang  them. 

l!ut  be  ye  ploughman,  be  ye  peer, 

Ye  are  a  tunny  blade,  1  swear ; 

An'  though  the  cauld  I  ill  can  hide, 

Yet  twenty  miles,  an'  niair,  Fd  ride, 

O'er  moss,  an'  inuir.  an1  never  grumble, 

Tho'  my  auld  yad  shou'd  gie  a  stumble, 

To  crack  a  winter-night  wi'  thee, 

And  hear  thy  Bangs  and  sonnets  slee. 

A  guid  saut  herring,  an'  a  cake, 

\\  i   sic  a  chiel,  a  least  wad  make, 

Fd  rather  scour  your  reaming  yill, 

(  »r  eat  o'  cheese  and  bread  my  fill, 

Than  wi'  dull  lairds  on  turtle  dine, 

An'  ferlie  at  their  wit  and  wine. 

O,  gif  I  kenrfd  but  whare  ye  baide, 

I'd  -end  to  you  a  marled  plaid  ; 

'Twad  baud  your  shoulders  warm  and  braw, 

An'  douse  at  kirk,  or  market  shaw. 

For  south,  as  weel  as  north,  my  lad, 

A'  honest  Scotchmen  lo'e  the  maud, 

Right  wae  that  we're  sae  far  frae  ither  : 

Yet  proud  I  am  to  ca'  ye  brither. 


Your  most  obedt. 


E.  S. 


THE  ANSWER. 


GUIDWIFE, 

I  mind  it  weel,  in  early  date, 

When  I  was  beardless  young,  and  blate, 

An'  first  could  thresh  the  barn  ; 
Or  haud  a  yokin  ai  the  pleugh, 
An"  tho'  forfoughten  sair  enough, 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn  ; 
When  first  amang  the  yellow  corn 

A  man  I  reckon'd  was, 
And  wi'  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  riir  and  lass, 
Still  shearing,  and  clearing 
The  tilher  stocked  raw, 
Wi'  claivers,  an'  haivers, 
Wearing  the  day  awa, — 


I'.'n  Ihen  a  wish,  (I  mind  its  power) 
that  to  my  latest  hour 
Shall  strongly  heave  rny  breast ; 


That  I  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  usefu'  plan,  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  bur-thistle,  spreading  wide 

Anions  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turn'd  my  weeding-heuk  aside, 
An'  spar'd  the  symbol  dear; 
No  nation,  no  station, 

My  envy  e'er  could  raise, 
A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 
I  knew  nac  higher  praise. 


But  still  the  elements  o'  sang 

In  formless  jumble,  right  an'  wrang, 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain  : 
Till  on  that  har'st  1  said  before, 
My  partner  in  the  merry  core, 

She  rous'd  the  forming  strain 
J  see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean, 

That  lighted  up  her  jingle, 
Her  witching  smile,  her  pauky  e'en 
That  gart  my  heart-strings  tingle ; 
I  fired,  inspired. 

At  ev'ry  kindling  keek, 
But  bashing,  and  dashing, 
I  feared  ay  to  speak. 


Hale  to  the  set,  each  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi' merry  dance  in  winter-days, 
An"  we  to  share  in  common  : 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  wo, 
The  saul  o'  life,  the  heav'n  below, 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 
Ye  surly  sumphs,  who  hate  the  name, 

Be  mindfu'  o'  your  mither  : 
She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 
That  ye're  connected  with  her. 
Ye're  wae  men,  ye're  nae  men, 
That  slight  the  lovely  dears; 
To  shame  yc,  disclaim  ye, 
Ilk  honest  birkie  swears. 


For  you,  na  bred  to  barn  and  byre, 
Wha  sweetly  tunc  the  Scottish  lyre, 

Thanks  to  you  for  your  line. 
The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare, 
By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware ; 

'Twad  please  me  to  the  Nine. 
I'd  be  mair  vaunt  ie  o'  my  hap, 

Douse  hingin  o'er  my  curple, 
Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap, 
Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Fareweel  then,  lang  hale  then, 

An'  plenty  be  your  fa  : 
May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne'er  at  your  hallan  ca'. 


Robert  Burns. 


March,  1787. 


SONG. 


BURNS'  POEMS.  149 

THERE  WAS  A  BONNIE  LASS. 


Tune — "  The  tither  morn,  as  I  forlorn." 


Yon  wand'ring  rill,  that  marks  the  hill, 
And  glances  o'er  the  brae,  Sir : 

Slides  by  a  bovver  where  mony  a  flower, 
Shades  fragrance  on  the  day,  Sir. 

There  Damon  lay,  with  Sylvia  gay : 
To  love  they  thought  nae  crime,  Sir ; 

The  wild-birds  sang,  the  echoes  rang, 
While  Damon's  heart  beat  time,  Sir. 


SONG. 


As  I  cam  in  by  our  gate-end, 

As  day  was  waxen  weary ; 
O  wha  cam  tripping  down  the  street, 

But  bonnie  Peg,  my  dearie. 

Her  air  sac  sweet,  and  shape  complete, 
Wi'  nae  proportion  wanting ; 

The  queen  of  love,  did  never  move, 
Wi'  motion  mair  enchanting. 

Wi'  linked  hands,  we  took  the  sands, 

Adown  yon  winding  river, 
And,  Oh  !  that  hour,  an'  broomy  bower 

Can  I  forget  it  ever? 


POLLY  STEWART. 

Tune — "  Ye're  welcome  Charlie  Stewart." 


O  Lovely  Polly  Stewart, 

O  charming  Polly  Stewart, 
There's  ne'er  a  flower  that  blooms  in  May, 

That's  half  so  fair  as  thou  art. 

The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades,  it  fa's, 

And  art  can  ne'er  renew  it ; 
But  worth  and  truth  eternal  youth 

Will  gie  to  Polly  Stewart. 

May  he,  whase  arms  shall  fauld  thy  charms, 

Possess  a  leal  and  true  heart ; 
To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 

He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart '. 
O  lovely,  kc 


There  was  a  bonnie  lass,  and  a  bonnie,  bonnie 
lass, 
And  she  lo'cd  her  bonnie  laddie  dear ; 
Till  war's  loud  alarms  tore  her  laddie  frae  her 
arms, 
Wi'  mony  a  sigh  and  a  tear. 
Over  sea,  over  shore,  where  the  cannons  loudly 
roar, 
He  still  was  a  stranger  to  fear ; 
And  nocht  could  him  quell,  or  his  bosom  assail, 
But  the  bonnie  lass  he  lo'ed  sae  dear. 


TIBBIE  DUNBAR. 


Tune— "Johnny  M'Gill." 


O  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dun- 
bar; 

0  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar ; 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse,  or  be  drawn  in  a 

car, 
Or  walk  by  my  side,  O  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar? 

1  carena  thy  daddie,  his  lands  and  his  money, 
I  carena  thy  kin,  sae  high  and  sae  lordly : 
But  say  thou  wilt  hae  me  for  better  for  waur, 
And  come  in  thy  coatie,  sweet  Tibbie  Dun- 
bar. 


ROBIN  SHURE  IN  HAIRST. 

Robin  shure  in  hairst 

I  shure  wi'  him, 
Fient  a  heuk  had  I, 

Yet  I  stack  by  him. 

I  gaed  up  to  Dunse, 

To  warp  a  wab  o'  plaiden, 

At  his  daddie 's  yett, 

Wha  met  me  but  Robin. 

Was  na  Robin  bauld, 

Tho'  I  was  a  cotter, 
Play'd  me  sic  a  trick 

And  me  the  eller's  dochter  ? 
Robin  shure,  &c. 

Robin  promis'd  me 

A'  my  whiter  vittle ; 
Fient  haet  he  had  but  three 

Goose  feathers  and  a  whittle. 
Robin  shure,  &c. 


150 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


MY  LADY'S  GOWN  THERE'S  GAIRS 
UPONT. 


My  lady's  gown  there's  gairs  upon't, 
Andgowden  flowers  sac  rare  upon't ; 
Eat  Jenny's  jimps  and  jirkinet, 
My  lord  thinks  muckle  mair  upon't. 


My  lord  a-hunting  he  isgane, 
Bui  bounds  or  hawks  wi"  him  are  nane, 
By  Colin's  cottage  lies  his  game, 
If  Colin's  Jenny  be  at  hame. 
My  lady's  gown,  kc. 


My  lady's  white,  my  lady's  red, 
And  kith  and  kin  o'  Cassillis'  blude, 
But  her  ten-pund  lands  o'  tocher  guid 
Were  a'  the  charms  his  lordship  lo'ed. 
My  lady's  gown,  &c. 


Out  o'er  yon  moor,  out  o'er  yon  moss, 
Whare  gor-cocks  thro'  the  heather  pass, 
There  wons  auld  Colin's  bonnio  lass, 
A  lily  in  a  wilderness. 
My  lady's  gown,  &c. 

Sac  sweetly  move  her  genty  limbs, 
Jjikc  music  notes  o'  lover's  hymns  : 
The  diamond  dew  in  her  een  sae  blue, 
Where  laughing  love  sae  wanton  swims. 
My  lady's  gown,  Sec. 


My  lady's  dink,  my  lady's  drest, 
The  flower  and  fancy  o'  the  west; 
But  the  lassie  that  a  man  lo'es  best, 
O  that's  the  lass  to  make  him  blest. 
My  lady's  gown,  &c. 


WEE  WILLIE  GRAY. 


Wee  Willie  Gray,  and  his  leather  wallet ; 
Peel    a  willow-wand    to    be  him  boots  and 

jacket: 
The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him  trouse  and 

doublet, 
The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  he  him  trouse  and 

doublet. 


Wee  Willie  dray,  and  his  leather  wallet ; 
Twice  a  lily  flower  will  be   in  him  Bark  and 

cravat  : 
Feathers  of  a  flee  wad  feather  up  his  bonnet, 
FV -at hers  of  a  Hue  wad  feather  Up  Ins  bonnet. 


THE  NORTHERN  LASS. 


Tho'  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, 

far  as  the  pole  and  line  ; 
i  ir  idea  round  my  heart 

Should  tenderly  entwine. 
Tho'  mountains  rise,  and  deserts  howl, 

And  oceans  roar  between; 
Yet  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

1  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


COULD  AUGHT  OF  SONG 


■  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains, 

Could  artful  numbers  move  thee, 
The  muse  should  tell,  in  labour'd  strains, 

O  Mary,  how  I  love  thee. 
They  who  but  feign  a  wounded  heart, 

May  teach  the  lyre  to  languish; 
But  whal  avails  the  pride  of  art, 

When  wastes  the  soul  with  anguish? 


Then  let  the  sudden  bursting  sigh 

The  heart-felt  pang  discover; 
And  in  the  keen,  yet  tender  eye, 

O  read  th'  imploring  lover. 
For  well  I  know  thy  gentle  mind 

Disdains  art's  gay  disguising; 
Beyond  what  fancy  e'er  refin'd 

The  voice  of  nature  prizing. 


O  GUID  ALE  COMES. 


0  c.vw  ale  comes,  and  guid  ale  goes, 
Guid  ale  gars  me  sell  my  hose, 

Sell  my  hose,  and  pawn  my  shoon, 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  hear)  ahoon. 

1  had  sax  owsen  in  a  pleugh, 
They  drew  a'  weel  enough, 

I  sell'd  them  a' jusl  ane  by  ane; 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

Guid  ale  hands  me  bare  and  busy,  _ 
Cars  me  moop  wi'  the  servant  hizzie, 
Stand  i'  tho  stool  when  I  hae  done, 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  ahoon. 
()  guid  ale  comes,  and  gude  ale  goes, 
Guid  ale  gars  me  sell  my  hose, 
Sell  my  hose,  and  pawn  my  shoon; 
Cuid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


151 


O  LEAVE  NOVELS. 


O  leave  novels,  ye  Manchlinc  belles, 

Ye're  safer  at  your  spinning-wheel ; 
Such  witching  books,  are  baited  hooks 

For  rakish  rooks,  like  Rob  Mossgiel. 
Your  fine  Tom  Jones  and  Grandisons, 

They  make  your  youthful  fancies  ree  , 
They  heat  your  brains,  and  fire  your  veins, 

And  then  you're  prey  for  Rob  Mossgiel. 


Beware  a  tongue  that's  smoothly  hung  : 

A  heart  that  warmly  seems  to  feel ; 
That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part, 

'Tis  rakish  art  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 
The  frank  address,  the  soft  caress, 

Are  worse  than  poisoned  darts  of  steel. 
The  frank  address,  and  politesse, 

Are  all  finesse  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 


O  AY  MY  WIFE  SHE  DANG  ME. 


O  ay  my  wife  she  dang  me, 
An'  aft  my  wife  she  bang'd  me ; 
If  ye  gie  a  woman  a'  her  will, 
Guid  faith  she'll  soon  o'ergang  ye. 

On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent, 

And  fool  I  was  I  marry'd  ; 
But  never  honest  man's  intent 

As  cursedly  miscarry'd. 

Some  sairie  comfort  still  at  last, 
When  a'  thir  days  are  done,  man, 

My  pains  o'  hell  on  earth  is  past, 
I'm  sure  o'  bliss  aboon,  man. 
O  ay  my  wife,  Sec. 


THE  DEUKS  DANG  O'ER  MY  DADDIE, 


The  bairns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout, 

The  deuks  dang  o'er  my  daddie,  O  ! 
The  fient  ma  care,  quo'  the  feirie  auld  wife, 

lie  was  but  a  paidlin  body,  O ! 
lie  paidles  out,  and  he  paidles  in, 

An'  he  paidles  late  and  carlie,  O  ; 
This  seven  king  years  I  hae  lien  by  his  side, 

An'  he  is  but  a  fusionless  carlie,  O. 


O  had  your  tongue,  my  feirie  auld  wife, 
O  had  your  tongue  now,  Nansie,  O : 

I've  seen  the  day*  and  sac  hae  ye, 
Ye  wadna  been  sac  donsie,  O ; 


I've  seen  the  day  ye  butter'd  my  brose, 
And  cuddl'd  me  late  and  earlie,  O  ; 

But  downa  do's  come  o'er  me  now, 
And,  Oh,  I  find  it  sairly,  O  ! 


DELIA. 


Fair  the  face  of  orient  day, 
Fair  the  tints  of  op'ning  rose ; 
But  fairer  still  my  Delia  dawns, 
More  lovely  far  her  beauty  blows. 

Sweet  the  lark's  wild-warbled  lay, 
Sweet  the  tinkling  rill  to  hear; 
But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still, 
Steal  thine  accents  on  mine  ear. 

The  flower-enamour'd  busy  bee 
The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip ; 
Sweet  the  streamlet's  limpid  lapse 
To  the  sun-brown'd  Arab's  lip ; 

But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 

Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rove  ! 

O  let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss, 

For  Oh !  my  soul  is  parch'd  with  love ! 


ON  A  BANK  OF  FLOWERS. 

On  a  bank  of  flowers  one  summer's  day, 

For  summer  lightly  dress'd, 
The  youthful,  blooming  Nelly  lay, 

With  love  and  sleep  oppress'd ; 
When  Willy,  wand'ring  thro'  the  wood, 

Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  su'd, 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd,  he  fear'd,  he  blush'd, 

And  trembled  where  he  stood. 

Her  closed  eyes,  like  weapons  sheath'd, 

Were  seal'd  in  soft  repose, 
Her  lips  still  as  they  fragrant  breath'd, 

It  richer  dy'd  the  rose. 
The  springing  lilies  sweetly  press'd, 

Wild  wanton  kiss'd  her  rival  breast ; 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd,  he  feard,  he  blush'd 

His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 

Her  robes,  light  waving  in  the  breeze, 

Her  tender  limbs  embrace, 
Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease, 

All  harmony  and  grace. 
Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll, 

A  flattering  ardent  kiss  he  stole  : 
He  gaz'd,  he  wish'd,  lie  fear'd,  he  blush'd, 

And  sigh'd  his  very  soul. 


152 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake, 

On  fear  inspired  wings  ; 
So  Nelly  startling,  half  awake, 

Away  affrighted  springs. 
Cut  Willy  follow'd  ashe  should, 

lie  overtook  lier  in  the  wood, 
lie  vow'd,  he  pray'd,  he  found  the  maid 

Forgiving  all  and  good. 


EVAN  BANKS. 

Slow  spreads  the  gloom  my  soul  desires, 
The  sun  from  India's  shore  retires; 
To  Evan  banks  with  temperate  ray 
Home  of  my  youth,  it  leads  the  day. 
Oh !  banks  to  me  for  ever  dear  ! 
Oh  !  stream  whose  murmurs  still  I  hear! 
AIL,  all  my  hopes  of  bliss  reside, 
Where  Evan  mingles  with  the  Clyde. 

And  she,  in  simple  beauty  drest, 
Whose  image  lives  within  my  breast; 
Who  trembling  heard  my  parting  sigh, 
And  long  pursued  me  with  her  eye  ! 
Does  she  with  heart  unehang'd  as  mine, 
Oft  in  thy  vocal  bowers  recline? 
Or  where  yon  grot  o'erhangs  the  tide, 
Muse  while  the  Evan  seeks  the  Clyde. 

Ye  lofty  banks  that  Evan  bound  ! 

Ye  lavish  woods  that  wave  around, 

And  o'er  the  stream  your  shadows  throw, 

Which  sweetly  winds  so  far  below ; 

What  secret  charm  to  mem'ry  brings, 

All  that  on  Evan's  border  springs  ? 

Sweet  banks  !  ye  bloom  by  Mary's  side  : 

Blest  stream  !  she  views  thee  haste  to  Clyde. 

Can  all  the  wealth  of  India's  coast 

Atone  for  years  in  absence  lost ; 

Return,  ye  moments  of  delight, 

With  richer  treasure  bless  my  sight! 

Swift  from  this  desert  let  me  part, 

And  fly  to  meet  a  kindred  heart ! 

Nor  more  may  aught  my  steps  divide 

From  that  dear  stream  which  flows  to  Clyde. 


THE   FIVE  CARLINS. 

AN  ELECTION  BALLAD. 

Tune— "  Chevy  Chace." 

Theiie  were  five  Carlins  in  the  south, 

Thoy  fell  upon  a  scheme, 
To  send  a  lad  to  Lon'on  town 

To  bring  us  tidings  hame. 


Not  only  bring  us  tidings  hame, 

But  do  our  errands  there, 
And  aiblins  gowd  and  honour  baith 

Might  be  that  laddie's  share. 

There  was  Maggie  by  the  banks  o'  Nith.* 

A  dame  wi'  pride  enough  ; 
And  Marjorie  o'  the  monie  Loch,t 

A  Carlin  auld  an'  teugh. 

And  blinkin  Bess  o'  Annandale,:}: 

That  dwells  near  Solway  side, 
And  whisky  Jean  that  took  her  gill} 

In  Galloway  so  wide. 

And  auld  black  Joan  frae  Creighton  peel, 

O'  gipsy  kith  an'  kin, 
Five  weightier  Carlins  were  na  found 

The  south  kintra  witliin. 

To  send  a  lad  to  Lon'on  town 

They  met  upon  a  day, 
And  monie  a  Knight  and  monie  a  Laird 

That  errand  fain  would  gae. 

O  !  monie  a  Knight  and  monie  a  Laird, 

This  errand  fain  would  gae ; 
But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please, 

O  !  ne'er  a  ane  but  twac. 

The  first  ane  was  a  belted  Knight, 

Bred  o'  a  border  band, 
An'  he  wad  gae  to  Lon'on  town, 

Might  nae  man  him  withstand. 

And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel, 

And  meikle  he  wad  say, 
And  ilka  ane  at  Lon'on  court 

Wad  bid  to  him  guid  day. 

Then  niest  came  in  a  sodger  youth, 

And  spak  wi'  modest  grace, 
An'  he  wad  gae  to  Lon'on  town, 

If  sac  their  pleasure  was. 

He  wad  na  hecht  them  courtly  gift, 

Nor  meikle  speech  pretend  ; 
But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart 

Wad  ne'er  desert  his  friend. 

Now  whom  to  choose  and  whom  refuse; 

To  strife  thae  Carlins  fell ; 
For  some  had  gentle  folk  to  please, 

And  some  wad  please  thcmsel. 

Then  out  spak  mim-mou'd  Meg  o'  Nith, 

An'  she  spak  out  wi'  pride, 
An'  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth 

Whatever  might  hetide. 

♦Dumfries.  tLochmaben.  t  Annan. 

$  Kirkcudbright.  Sanquhar. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


15" 


For  (ho  auld  guidman  o'  Lon'on  court 

She  did  not  care  a  pin, 
But  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth 

To  greet  his  eldest  son. 

Then  up  sprang  Bess  o1  Annandale  : 

A  deadly  aith  she's  ta'en, 
That  she  wad  vote  the  border  Knight, 

Tho'  she  should  vote  her  lane. 

For  far  off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair, 

An"  fools  o'  change  are  fain  : 
But  I  hae  tried  tho  border  Knight, 

I'll  try  him  yet  again.    . 

Says  auld  black  Joan  frae  Creighton  peel, 

A  Carlin  stout  and  grim, 
The  auld  guidman  or  young  guidman: 

For  me  may  sink  or  swim  1 

For  fools  may  prate  o'  right  and  wrang, 
While  knaves  laugh  them  to  scorn ; 

But  the  Sodger's  friends  hae  blawn  the  best 
Sae  he  shall  bear  the  horn. 

Then  whisky  Jean  spak  o'er  her  drink, 

Ye  wcel  ken  kimmers  a', 
The  auld  guidman o'  Lon'on  court, 

His  back's  been  at  the  wa\ 

And  monie  a  friend  that  kiss'd  his  caup, 

Is  now  a  frarnmit  wight ; 
But  it's  n'eer  sae  vvi'  whisky  Jean, 

We'll  send  the  border  Knight. 

Then  slow  raise  Majorie  o'  the  Lochs, 

And  wrinkled  -was  her  brow  ; 
Her  ancient  weed  was  russet  gray, 

Her  auld  Scots  heart  was  true. 

There's  some  great  folks  set  light  by  me, 

I  set  as  light  by  them ; 
But  I  will  send  to  Lon'on  town 

Wha  I  lo'e  best  at  hame. 

So  how  this  weighty  plea  will  end, 

Nae  mortal  wight  can  tell ; 
G-d  grant  the  King  and  ilka  man 

May  look  weel  to  himsel. 


THE  LASS  THAT  MADE  THE  BED 
TO  ME. 

When'  January  winds  were  blawing  cauld, 
As  to  the  north  I  bent  my  way, 

The  mirksome  night  did  ine  enfauld, 
I  kenn'd  na  whare  to  lodge  till  day ; 
L  ii 


By  my  guid  luck  a  lass  I  met, 
'just  in  the  middle  of  my  care, 

And  kindly  she  did  me  invite, 
To  walk  into  a  chamber  fair, 


1  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid, 

And  thank'd  her  for  her  courtesie ; 
I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid, 

And  bade  her  make  a  bed  for  me : 
She  made  the  bed  both  large  and  wide, 

Wi'  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it  down  ; 
She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips, 

And  drank,    "Young    man,  now  sleep  ye 
sound." 


She  snatch'd  the  candle  in  her  hand, 

And  frae  my  chamber  went  wi'  speed : 
But  I  call'd  her  quickly  back  again, 

To  lay  some  mair  below  my  head  : 
A  cod  she  laid  below  my  head, 

And  served  me  with  due  respect; 
And  to  salute  her  with  a  kiss, 

1  put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 

"Haud  aff  your  hands,  young  man,"  says  she, 

"  And  dinna  sae  uncivil  be ; 
Gif  ye  hae  ony  love  for  me, 

O  wrang  na  my  virginity  !" 
Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gowd, 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivory, 
Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  for  me. 


Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 

Twa  drifted  heaps  sae  fair  to  see 
Her  limbs  the  polish'd  marble  stane, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 
I  kiss'd  her  owre  and  owre  again, 

And  ay  she  wistna  what  to  say  ; 
I  laid  her  'tween  me  and  the  wa1 ; 

The  lassie  thought  na  lang  till  day. 


Upon  the  morrow,  when  we  raise, 

I  thank'd  her  for  her  courtesie; 
But  ay  she  blush'd,  and  ay  she  sigh'd, 

And  said,  "Alas  !  ye've  ruin'd  me." 
I  clasp'd  her  waist,  and  kiss'd  her  syne, 

While  the  tear  stood  twinkling  in  her  e'e 
I  said,  "  my  lassie,  dinna  cry, 

For  ye  ay  shall  mak  the  bed  to  me." 


She  took  her  mither's  Holland  sheets, 

And  made  them  a'  in  sarks  to  me; 
Blythe  and  merry  may  she  be, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 
The  bonnie  lass  made  the  bed  to  me, 

The  braw  lass  made  the  bed  to  me ; 
I'll  ne'er  forget,  till  the  day  that  I  die, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  mc. 


154  BURNS'  POEMS 

THE  KIRK'S  ALARM  * 


A  SATIRE. 

Orthodox,  Orthodox,  wha  believe   in   John 
Knox, 
Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience ; 
There's  a  heretic  blast,  has  been  blawn  in  the 
wast, 
That  what  is  no  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

Dr.  Mac,t  Dr.  Mac,  you  should  stretch  on  a 
rack, 

To  strike  evil  doers  wi'  terror  ; 
To  join  faith  and  sense  upon  ony  pretence, 

Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

Town  of  Ayr,  town  of  Ayr,  it  was  mad  I  de- 
clare. 

To  meddle  wi'  mischief  a-brewing ; 
Provost  John  is  still  deaf  to  the  church's  relief, 

And  orator  Bob  $  is  it's  ruin. 

D'rymple  mild,  $   D'rymplc   mild,   tho'  your 
heart's  like  a  child, 
And  your  life  like  the  new  driven  snaw, 
Yet  that  winna  save  ye,  auld  Satan  must  have 

yc' 
For  preaching  that  three's  ane  and  twa. 

Rumble  John,  ||  Rumble  John,  mount  the  steps 
wi'  a  groan, 
Cry  the  book  is  wi'  heresy  cramm'd ; 
Then  lug  out  your  ladle,  deal  brimstone  like 
addle 
And  roar  every  note  of  the  damn'd. 

Simper  James.1i  Simper  James,  leave  the  fair 
Killie  dames, 
There's  a  holier  chase  in  your  view  ; 
I'll  lay  on  your  head,  that  the  pack  ye'll  soon 
lead, 
For  puppies  like  you  there's  but  few. 

Singet  Sawney,**  Singet  Sawney,  arc  yc  herd- 
in  »■  the  penny, 

Unconscious  whal  evils  await? 
Wi'  a  jump,  veil,  and  howl,  alarm  every  soul, 
For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 

Daddy  Auld.tr  Dadilv  Auld,  there's  a  tod  in 
the  fauld, 
A  tod  meikle  waur  than  the  Clerk  ; 
Tho'  ye  can  do  little  skaith,  ye'll  be  in  at  the 
death, 
And  gif  ye  caiuia  bite,  ye  may  bark. 

♦This  Poem  was  written  a  short  linn:  after  the  ptiln 
licalion  of  Dr.  M'GHI'a  F  ssay. 

t  Itr.  M'Gill.      }  K 1  A— k— n.     j  Mr.  D— m— le. 

||Mr.R— 69— 1L      ITMr.M'K— y.      **Mr.  M y. 

rt  Mr.  A-d. 


Davie  Bluster,*  Davie  Bluster,  if  for  a  saint  yo 
do  muster, 
The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits  : 
Yet  to  worth  let's  be  just,  royal  blood  ye  might 

boast. 
If  the  ass  was  the  king  of  the  brutes. 

Jamie  Groose,t  Jamie  Goose,  ye  hae  made  but 
toom 
In  hunting  the  wicked  Lieutenant; 
But  the  Doctor's  your  mark,  for  tho  L — d's 
haly  ark, 
He  has  cooper'd  and  caw'd  a  vvrang  pin  in't. 


Poet  Willie,!  Poet  Willie,  gie  the  Doctor  a 
volley, 

Wi'  your  liberty's  chain  and  your  wit ; 
O'er  Pegasus's  side  yc  neer  laid  a  stride, 

Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  s — t. 

Andro  Gouk,5  Andro  Gouk,  ye  may  slander 
the  book, 
And  the  book  nane  the  waur  let  mo  tell  ye ! 
Ye  are  rich,  and  look  big,  but  lay  by  hat  and 
wig, 
And  ye'll  hae  a  calf's  head  o'  sma'  value. 

Barr  Steenie,  ||  Barr  Stecnic,  what  mean  ye ? 
what  mean  yc  ? 

If  ye'll  meddle  nae  mair  wi'  the  matter, 
Ye  may  hae  some  pretence  to  bavins  and  sense, 

Wi'  the  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 

Irvine  Side.1T  Irvine  Side,  wi'  your  turkey-cock 

pride, 

Of  manhood  but  sma'  is  your  share  ; 

Ye'vc  the  figure,  'tis  true,  even  your  facs  will 

allow,  [mair. 

And  your  friends  they  dare  grant  you  nae 

Muirland  Jock,**  Muirland  Jock,  when  the 
L — d  makes  a  rock 

To  crush  common  sense  for  her  sins,  [fit 
If  ill  manners  were  wit,  there's  no  mortal  so 

To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Holy  Will,tt  Holy  Will,  there  was  wit  i'  your 
skull, 

When  ye  pilfer'd  the  alms  o'  the  poor  ; 
The  timmer  is  scant,  when  ye're  ta'en  for  a  Rant, 

Wha  should  swing  in  a  rape  for  an  hour. 

Calvin's  sons,  Calvin's  sons,  seize  your  sp 'ritual 
guns, 

Ammunition  yon  never  can  need ;  [enough, 
Your  hearts   are   the   stuff,   will    be  powther 

And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o1  lead 

*  Mr.  C. 1  of  O— l— c     t  Mr.  Y— g  of  C— n— k. 

t  Mr.  P— b— B  of  A— r.  {  Dr.  A.  M— II. 

||  Mr.  S nY gofB r.    IT  Mr.  S h 

of  G n.  **  Mr.  S d     tt  An  Elder  in  M o 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


155 


Poet  Burns,  Poet  Bums,  wi'  your  pricst-skelp- 
ing  turns, 

Why  desert  ye  your  auld  nativo  shire  ? 
Your  muse  is  a  gipsie,  e'en  tho'  6he  were  tipsie, 

Sho  cou'd  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 


THE  TWA  HERDS. 


O  a'  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 
Well  fed  on  pastures  orthodox, 
Wha  now  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox, 

Or  worrying  tykes, 
Or  wha  will  tent  the  waifs  and  crocks, 

About  the  dykes  ? 


The  twa  best  herds  in  a'  the  wast, 
That  e'er  gae  gospel  horn  a  blast, 
These  five  and  twenty  summers  past, 

O  !  dool  to  tell, 
Hac  had  a  bitter  black  out-cast, 

Atween  themsel. 


O,  M y,  man,  and  wordy  R 11, 

How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle, 
Ye'll  see  how  new-light  herds  will  whistle, 

And  think  it  fine  ! 
The  Lord's  cause  ne'er  gat  sic  a  twistle, 

Sin'  I  hae  min'. 


O,  Sirs !  whae'er  wad  hae  expeckit, 
Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit, 
Ye  wha  were  ne'er  by  lairds  respeckit, 

To  wear  the  plaid, 
But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit, 

To  be  their  guide. 


What  flock  wi'  M y's  flock  could  rank, 

Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank, 
Nae  poison'd  soor  Arminian  stank, 

He  let  them  taste, 
Frae  Calvin's  well,  ay  clear  they  drank, 

O  sic  a  feast ! 


The  thummart,  wil'-cat,  brock  and  tod, 
Weel  kenn'd  his  voice  •thro'  a'  the  wood, 
He  smell'd  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 
Baith  out  and  in, 
And  weel  he  lik'd  to  shed  their  bluid, 
•  And  sell  their  skin. 


What  herd  like  R 11  tell'd  his  tale  ? 

His  voice  was  heard  thro'  muir  and  dale, 
He  kenn'd  the  Lord's  sheep  ilka  tail, 
O'er  a'  the  height, 
And  saw  gin  they  were  siok  or  hale, 
At  the  first  sight 


He  fine  a  mangy  sheep  could  scrub, 
Or  nobly  fling' the  gospel  club, 
And  new-light  herds  could  nicely  drub, 

Or  pay  their  skin, 
Could  6hako  them  o'er  tho  burning  dub ; 
Or  heave  them  in. 


Sic  twa — O '.  do  I  live  to  see't— 
Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet, 
An'  names,  like  villain,  hypocrite, 
Ilk  ithcr  gi'en, 
Wliilo  new-light  herds  wi'  laughin  spite, 
Say  neither's  hen' ! 


A'  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauld, 

There's  D n,  deep,  and  P s,  shaul, 

But  cliiefly  thou,  apostlo  A — d, 

We  trust  in  thee, 
That  thou  wilt  work  them,  hot  and  cauld, 

Till  they  agree. 


Consider,  Sirs,  how  we're  beset, 
There's  scarce  a  new  herd  that  we  get, 
But  comes  frae  'mang  that  cursed  set, 

I  winna  name, 
I  hope  frae  heav'n  to  see  them  yet 
In  fiery  flame. 


D e  has  been  lang  our  fae, 

M' 11  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae, 

And  that  curs'd  rascal  ca'd  M' e, 

And  baith  the  S 

That  aft  hae  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi'  vengefu'  paws. 


Auld  W- w  lang«has  hatch'd  mischief, 

Wc  thought  ay  death  wad  bring  relief, 
But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  him, 
A  chiel  wha'll  soundly  buff  our  beef ; 

I  meikle  dread  him. 


And  mony  a  ane  that  I  could  tell, 
Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 
Forby  turn-coats  amang  oursel, 

There  S h  for  ane, 

I  doubt  he's  but  a  gray  nick  quill, 

And  that  ye'll  fin'. 


O !  a'  ye  flocks,  o'er  a'  the  hills, 
By  mosses,  meadows,  moors  and  fells, 
Come  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills, 

To  cowe  the  lairds, 
And  get  the  brutes  the  power  themselves, 

To  choose  their  herds. 


Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance, 
And  Learning  in  a  woody  dance, 


156 

And  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common  Sense, 
That  hites  sae  sair, 

lie  banish'd  o'er  the  sea  to  France : 

Let  him  bark  there. 


Then  Shaw's  and  D'rymple's  eloquence, 

M' H's  close  nervous  excellence, 

M'Q 's  pathetic  manly  sense, 

And  guid  M' h 

Wi'  S th,wha  thro'  the  heart  can  glance, 

May  a'  pack  aff. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


EPISTLE  FROM  A  TAYLOR 

TO 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

What  waefu'  news  is  this  I  hear, 
Frae  greeting  I  can  scarce  forbear, 
Folks  tell  me,  ye're  gawn  aff  this  year, 

Out  o'er  the  sea, 
And  lasses  wham  ye  lo'e  sae  clear 

Will  greet  for  thee. 

Weel  wad  I  like  war  yo  to  stay 
But,  Robin,  since  ye  will  away, 
I  hae  a  word  yet  mair.to  say, 

And  maybe  twa ; 
May  he  protect  us  night  an'  day, 

That  made  us  a'. 


Whaur  thou  art  gaun,  keep  mind  frae  me, 
Seek  him  to  bear  thee  companie, 
And,  Robin,  whan  ye  come  to  die, 

Ye'll  won  aboon, 
An'  live  at  peace  an'  unity 

Ayont  the  moon. 

Some  tell  me,  Rab,  ye  dinna  fear 
To  get  a  wean,  an'  curse  an'  swear, 
I'm  unco  wae,  my  lad,  to  hear 

O'  sic  a  trade, 
Cou'd  I  persuade  yo  to  forbear, 

I  wad  be  «iad. 


Fu'  weel  ye  ken  ye'll  gang  to  hell, 
Gin  ye  persist  in  doing  ill — 

Waes  me :  ye're  hurlin  down  the  hill 
Withouten  dread, 

An'  ye'll  get  leave  to  swear  your  fill 
After  ye're  dead. 

There  walth  o'  women  ye'll  get  near, 
But  gcttin  weans  ye  will  forbear, 


Ye'll  never  say,  my  bonnie  dear 

Come,  gic's  a  kiss— 

Nae  kissing  there — yell  grin  an'  sneer, 
An'  ithcr  hiss. 


O  Rab  !  lay  by  thy  foolish  tricks, 
An'  steer  nae  mair  the  female  sex, 
Or  some  day  yc"ll  come  through  the  pricks, 

An'  that  ye'll  see; 
Ye'll  find  hard  living  wi'  Auld  Nicks; 

I'm  wae  for  thee. 

But  what's  this  comes  wi'  sic  a  knell, 
Amaist  as  loud  as  ony  bell?  _ 
While  it  does  mak  my  conscience  tell 

Me  what  is  true, 
I'm  but  a  ragget  cowt  mysel, 

Owre  sib  to  you  I 

We're  owre  like  those  wha  think  it  fit, 
To  stuff  their  noddles  fu'  o'  wit, 
An'  yet  content  in  darkness  sit, 

Wha  shun  the  light, 
To  let  them  see  down  to  the  pit, 

That  lang,  dark  night. 

But  farewell,  Rab,  I  maun  awa', 
May  he  that  made  us  keep  us  a', 
For  that  would  be  a  dreadfu'  fa' 

And  hurt  us  sair, 
Lad,  ye  wad  never  mend  ava, 

Sae,  Rab,  tak  care. 


THE  ANSWER. 


What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousy  b h, 

To  thresh  my  back  at  sic  a  pitch  ? 
Losh  man !  hae  mercy  wi'  your  natch, 

Your  bodkin  s  bauld. 
I  did  na  suffer  ha'f  sae  mucli 

Fra  Daddie  Auld. 

What  tho'  at  times  when  I  grow  crouse, 
I  <ric  their  wames  a  random  pouse, 
Is^that  enough  for  you  to  souse 

Your  servant sae? 
Gae  mind  your  scam,  ye  prick  the  louse, 

An'  jag  the  flae. 

King  David  o'  poetic  brief, 
Wrought  'mang  the  lasses  sic  mischief 
As  filfd  his  after  life  wi'  grief 

An'  bloody  rants, 
An'  vet  he's  rank'd  ainang  the  chief 

O'  lang  syne  saunls. 


BURNS*  PCT3MS. 


157 


And  maybe,  Tarn,  for  a'  my  cants, 
My  wicked  rhymes,  an'  drucken  ranis-, 
I'll  gie  auld  cloven  Clouty's  haunts, 

An  unco  slip  yet, 
An'  snugly  sit  amang  the  saunts 

At  Davie's  hip  yet. 


But  fegs,  the  Session  says  I  maun 
Gae  fa'  upo'  anither  plan, 
Than  garran  lassies  cowp  the  cran 

Clean  heels  owre  body, 
And  sairly  thole  their  mither's  ban, 

Afore  the  howdy. 


This  leads  me  on,  to  tell  for  sport, 
How  I  did  with  the  Session  sort — 
Auld  Clinkum  at  the  Inner  port 

Cry'd  three  times,  "  Robin ! 
Come  hither  lad,  an  answer  fort't, 

Ye're  blam'd  for  jobbin." 


Wi'  pinch  I  put  a  Sunday's  face  on, 
An'  snoov'd  awa'  before  the  Session— 
I  made  an  open,  fair  confession, 

I  scorn'd  to  lie : 
An'  syne  Mess  John,  beyond  expression. 
Fell  foul  o1  me. 


A  fornicator  lown  he  call'd  me, 
An'  said  my  fau't  frae  bliss  expell'd  me ; 
I  own'd  the  tale  was  true  he  tell'd  me, 

"  But  what  the  matter : 
Quo'  1,  "  I  fear  unless  ye  geld  me, 

I'll  ne'er  be  better." 


"  Geld  you,"  quo'  he,  "  and  what  for  no  ! 
If  that  your  right  hand,  leg  or  toe, 
Should  ever  prove  your  sp 'ritual  foe, 

You  shou'd  remember 
To  cut  it  aff,  an'  what  for  no 

Your  dearest  member  ?" 


"  Na,  na,"  quo'  I,  "  I'm  no  for  that, 
Gelding's  nae  better  than  'tis  ca't, 
I'd  rather  suffer  for  my  fau't, 

A  hearty  flewit, 
As  sair  owre  hip  as  ye  can  draw't ! 

Tho'  I  should  rue  it. 


Or  gin  ye  like  to  end  the  bother, 
To  please  us  a',  I've  just  ae  ither, 
When  next  wi'  yon  lass  I  forgather 

Whate'er  betide  it, 
I'll  frankly  gie  her't  a'  thegither, 

An'  let  her  guide  it." 


But,  Sir,  this  plcas'd  them  warst  ava, 
An'  therefore,  Tain,  when  that  1  saw, 


I  said, "  Guid  night,"  and  cam  awa', 

And  left  tho  Session ; 

I  saw  they  were  resolved  a' 

On  my  oppression. 


LETTER  TO  JOHN  GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

ON  THE  PUBLICATION  OF  HIS  ESSAYS. 

O  Goudie  !  terror  o'  the  Whigs, 
Dread  o'  black  coats  and  rev'rend  wigs, 
Soor  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Girnin  looks  back, 
Wishin  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 

Wad  seize  you  quick. 

Poor  gapin,  glowrin  Superstion, 
Waes  me  !  she's  in  a  sad  condition  ; 
Fy,  bring  Black  Jock,  her  state  physician, 

To  see  her  w~ter ; 
Alas  !  there's  ground  o'  great  suspicion 

She'll  ne'er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  lang  did  grapple 
But  now  she's  got  an  unco  ripple, 
Haste,  gie  her  name  up  i'  the  chapel, 

Nigh  unto  death ; 
See  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple, 

An'  gasps  for  breath. 

Enthusiasm  's  past  redemption, 
Gaen  in  a  galloping  consumption, 
Not  a'  the  quacks  wi'  a'  their  gumption, 
Will  ever  mend  her, 
Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presumption, 

Death  soon  will  end  her. 

'Tis  you  and  Taylor*  are  the  chief, 
Wha  are  to  blame  for  this  mischief; 
But  gin  the  L — d's  am  folks  gat  leave, 
A  toom  tar  barrel 
And  twa  red  peats  wad  send  relief, 

An'  end  the  quarrel. 


LETTER  TO  J — S  T — T  GL— NC—R- 

Auld  comrade  dear  and  brither  sinner, 
How 's  a'  the  folk  about  Gl — no — r  ; 
How  do  you  thisblae  eastlin  wind, 
That 's  like  to  blaw  a  body  blind  : 
For  me  my  faculties  arc  frozen, 
My  dearest  member  nearly  dozen'd  : 

*Dr.  Taylor  of  Norwich. 


158 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


I've  sent  you  here  by  Johnic  Simpson, 
Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on; 
Smith,  wi'  his  sympathetic  feeling, 
An'  llciil.  1o  common  sense  appealing, 
Philosophers  have  fought  an'  wrangled, 
An'  meikle  Greek  an'  Latin  mangled, 
Till  wi'  their  logic  jargon  tir\l. 
An'  in  the  depth  of  science  mir'd, 
To  common  sense  they  now  appeal, 
What  wives  an'  wabsters  see  an'  feel ; 
But,  hark  ye,  friend,  1  charge  you  strictly, 
Peruse  them  an'  return  them  quickly  ; 
For  now  I'm  grown  sae  cursed  douse, 
I  pray  an'  ponder  butt  the  house, 
My  shins,  my  lane,  I  there  sit  r<>astin, 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown,  and  Boston  ; 
Till  by  an'  by,  if  I  baud  on, 
I'll  grunt  a  real  Gospel  groan  : 
Already  I  begin  to  try  it, 
To  cast  my  een  up  like  a  pyet, 
When  by  the  gun  she  tumbles  o'er, 
Flutt'ring  an'  gasping  in  her  gore  ; 
Sae  shortly  you  shall  see  me  bright, 
A  burning  an'  a  shining  light. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace  an'  wale  of  honest  men  ; 
When  bending  down  with  auld  gray  hairs, 
Beneath  the  load  of  years  and  cares, 
May  he  who  made  him  still  support  him. 
An'  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort  him. 
His  worthy  fam'ly  far  and  near, 
God  bless  them  a'  wi'  grace  and  gear. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

SIR  JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR. 

The  lamp  of  day  with  ill-presaging  glare, 
Dim,    cloudy,    sunk    beneath   the  western 
wave ;  [air, 

Th'  inconstant  blast  howl'd  thro'  the  darkening 
And  hollow  whistled  hi  the  rocky  cave. 

Lone  as  I  wander'd  by  each  cliff  and  dell, 
Once   the   lov'd   haunts  of   Scotia's   royal 
train  ;*  [well,t 

Or  mus'd  where  limpid  streams,  once  ballow'd, 
Or  mould'ring  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fanc.J 

•The  King's  Park,  at  Holyrooil-house. 

t  St.  Anluony'B  Well.        J  St,  AnUiony'6  Chapel. 


Th'  increasing  blast  roar'd  round  the  beetling 

rocks,  [skyi 

The  clouds  swift-wing'd  flew  o'er  the  starry 

The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks, 

And  shooting  meteors  caught  the  startling 

eye. 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east, 

And  'mong  the  cliff's  disclos'd  a  stately  form, 

In  weeds  of  wo  that  frantic  beat  her  breast, 
And  mix'd  her  wailings  with    the   raving 
storm. 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

'Twas  Caledonia's  trophied  shield  I  view'd: 

Her  form  majestic  droop'd  in  pensive  wo, 
The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 

Revers'd  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war  ; 

Reclin'd  that  banner,  erst  in  fields  unfurl 'd, 
That  like  a  deathful  meteor  gleam'd  afar, 

And  brav'd  the  mighty   monarchs    of  the 
world.— 

**  My  patriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave  !" 

With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms  she  cried ; 
u  Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretch'd  to 
save, 
Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell'd  with  honest 
pride ! 

"  A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow's  tears, 
The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  orphan's  cry; 

The  drooping  arts  surround  their  patron's  bier 
And  grateful  science  heaves   the    heartfelt 
sigh. — 

"  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire ; 

I  saw  fair  Freedom's  blossoms  richly  blow  ; 
But  ah  !  how  hope  is  born  but  to  expire  ! 

Relentless  fate  has  laid  this  guardian  low. — 

"  My  patriot  falls,  but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 
While  empty  greatness  saves  a  worthless 
name  I 

No ;  every  muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue, 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing  fame. 

"  And  I  will  join  a  mother's  tender  cares, 
Thro'  future  times  to  make  his  virtues  last, 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs"— 
She  said,  and  vanish'd  with  the  sweeping 
blast. 


Tmm  jr©ttJL,y  ®®©®a®s^ 


A.  CANTATA. 


RECITATIVO. 


When  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird, 
Or,  wavering  like  the  bauckie*  bird, 

Bedim  cauld  Boreas'  blast : 
When  hailstancs  drive  wi'  bitter  skyte, 
And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite, 

In  hoary  cranreugh  drest ; 
Ae  night  at  e'en,  a  merry  core 

O'  randie^gangrel  bodies, 
In  Poosie-Nansie's  held  the  sploro, 
To  drink  their  ora  duddics  : 
Wi'  quaffing  and  laughing, 

They  ranted  and  they  sang ; 
Wi'  jumping  and  thumping 
The  vera  girdle  rang. 


First,  niest  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags, 
Ane  sat,  weel  brae'd  wi'  mealy  bags, 

And  knapsack  a'  in  order; 
His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm, 
Wi'  usquebae  and  blankets  warm, 

She  blinket  on  her  sodger; 
And  aye  ho  gies  the  tousie  drab 

The  tithcr  skclpin  kiss, 
While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab, 
Just  like  an  a'mous  dish  ; 

Ilk  smack  still,  did  crack  still, 
Just  like  a  cadger's  whup, 
Then  staggering,  and  swaggering, 
He  roar'd  this  ditty  up — 


Tune—"  Soldier's  Joy." 

I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many 

wars, 
And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I  come ; 
This  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that  other  in 

a  trench, 
When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  of 

the  drum.  Lai  de  dandle,  Sec. 

•  The  old  Scottish  name  for  the  Bat. 


My 'prenticeship  Ipast  where  my  leader  breath'd 

his  last, 
When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights 

of  Abram ; 
I  serv'd  out  my  trade  when  the  gallant  game 

was  play'd, 
And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the 

drum.  Lai  de  dandle,  Sec. 

I  lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  tho  floating 
batt'ries,  [limb : 

And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a 

Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  to 
head  me, 

I'd  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  the 
drum.  Lai  de  dandle,  Sec. 

And  now,  tho'  I  must  beg,  with  a  wooden  arm 

and  leg, 
And  many  a  tatter'd  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 
I'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle,  and 

my  callet, 
As  when  I  us'd  in  scarlet  to  follow  the  drum. 
Lai  de  dandle,  Sec. 

What  tho'  with  hoary  locks,  I  must  stand  tho 

windy  shocks, 
Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks,  oftentimes  for 

a  home ; 
When  the  tother  bag  I  sell,  and  the  tother 

bottle  tell, 
I  could  meet  a  troop  of  h-11  at  the  sound  of 

the  drum. 

RECITATIVO. 

He  ended ;  and  the  kebars  sheuk 

Aboon  the  chorus  roar ; 
While  frighted  rattans  backward  leuk, 

And  seek  the  benmost  boro  : 

A  fairy  fiddler  frao  the  neuk, 

He  skirl'd  out  encore ! 
But  up  arose  the  martial's  chuck, 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune—"  Soldier  Laddie." 

I  once  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men  j 


160 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my  dad- 
die. 
No  wonder  I'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  kc. 

The  first  of  my  lovers  was  a  swaggering  blade, 
To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade  ; 
His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  Ins  cheek  was  so 

ruddy, 
Transported  1  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  hi,  kc. 


But  the  goodly  old  chaplain  left  him   in   the 

lurch, 
So  the  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of  the 

church, 
He  ventur'd  the  soul,  I  risked  the  body, 
'Twas  then  I  prov'd  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  kc. 


Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  the  sanctified  sot, 
The  regiment  at  large  for  a  husband  I  got ; 
From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I  was 

ready, 
I  asked  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal,  de  lal,  kc. 


But  the  peace  it  redue'd  me  to  beg  in  despair, 
Till  I  met  my  old  boy  at  a  Cunningham  fair, 
His  rags  regimental  they  flutter "d  sac  gaudy, 
My  heart  it  rejoie'd  at  my  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  kc. 


And  now  I  have  liv'd — I  know  not  how  long, 

And  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  or  a  song  ; 

But  whilst  with  both  hands  I  can  hold  the 

glass  steady, 
Here's  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie. 
Si?ig,  Lal,  de  lal,  kc. 


RECITATIVO. 

Poor  Merry  Andrew,  in  the  neuk, 

Sat  guzzling  wi'  a  tinkler  hizzic  ; 
They  mind"t  na  what  the  chorus  took, 

Between  themselves  they  were  sac  bizzy ; 
At  length,  wi'  drink  and  courting  dizzy, 

He  stoiter'd  up  and  made  a  face ; 
Then  turn'd  and  laid  a  smack  on  Grizzy, 

Syne  tun'd  his  pipes  wi'  grave  grimace. 


Tune—"  Auld  Sir  Symon.' 

Sir  Wisdom's  a  fool  when  he's  fou, 
Sir  Knave  is  a  fool  in  a  session; 

J  le's  there  but  a  'prentice  I  trow, 
But  I  am  a  fool  by  profession. 


My  urannie  she  bought  me  a  bcuk, 
And  1  held  awa  to  the  school; 

I  fear  I  my  talent  misteuk ; 

But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a  fool? 

For  drink  I  would  venture  my  neck  ; 

A  hizzie'sthe  half  o'  my  craft; 
But  what  could  ye  oilier  expect 

(  Mane  that's  avowedly  daft. 

I  ance  was  ty'd  up  like  a  stirk, 

For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffing ; 

I  ance  was  abus'd  i'  the  kirk, 
For  towzling  a  lass  i'  my  daffin. 

Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport, 
Let  naebody  name  wi'  a  jeer; 

There's  ev'n  I'm  tauld  i'  the  court, 
A  tumbler  ca'd  the  Premier. 

Observ'd  ye,  yon  reverend  lad 
Maks  faces  to  tickle  the  mob  ; 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad, 
It 's  rivalship  just  i'  the  job. 

And  now  my  conclusion  I'll  tell, 
For  faith  I'm  confoundedly  dry, 

The  chiel  that 's  a  fool  for  himsel', 
Gude  L — d,  is  far  dafter  than  I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then  niest  outspak  a  rauclc  carlin, 
Wba  kent  fu'  weel  to  clock  the  sterlin, 
For  monie  a  pursie  she  had  hooked, 
And  had  in  monie  a  well  been  ducket; 
Her  dove  had  been  a  Highland  laddie, 
But  weary  fa'  the  waefu'  woodie  ! 
Wi'  sighs  and  sabs,  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  braw  John  Highlandman. 


Tune — "  O  an'  ye  were  dead  guidman." 

A  HIGHLAND  lad  my  love  was  born, 
The  Lawlan'  laws  he  held  in  scorn ; 
But  he  still  was  faithfu'  to  his  clan, 
My  gallant,  braw  John  Highlandman. 


Sing,  hey,  my  braw  John  Highlandman , 
Sing,  ho,  my  braw  John  Highlandman; 
There's  not  a  lad  in  nil  /lit  I  mi 
Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

A \ * i  1 1 1  his  philibeg  and  tartan  plaid, 
And  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side, 
The  ladies'  hearts  he  did  trepan, 
My  gallant,  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Si7ig,  hey,  kc. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


ici 


We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
And  liv'd  like  lords  and  ladies  gay  ; 
For  a  Lallan  face  he  feared  nane, 
My  gallant,  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  Sec. 

They  banish'd  him  beyond  the  sea, 
But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran, 

Embracing  my  Jolm  Ilighlandinan. 

Sing,  lay,  Sec. 

But  oh  !  they  catch'd  him  at  the  last, 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast ; 
My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 
They've  hang'd  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  "Sec. 

And  now  a  widow,  I  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  return ; 
No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can, 
When  I  tliink  on  John  Ilighlandinan. 

Sing,  hey,  Sec. 


RECITATIVO. 


A  pigmy  Scraper  wi'  his  fiddle, 

Wha  us'd  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle, 

Her  strappin  limb  and  gaucy  middle 

(He  reach'd  nae  higher,) 
Had  hol't  his  heartie  like  a  riddle, 

And  blawn't  on  fire. 

Wi'  hand  on  haunch,  and  upward  e'e, 
He  croon'd  his  gamut  ane,  twa,  three, 
Then,  in  an  Arioso  key, 

The  wee  Apollo 
Set  aff,  wi'  Allegretto  glee, 

His  giga  solo. 


Tune— "Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 

Let  me  rykc  up  to  dight  that  tear, 
And  go  wi'  me  and  be  my  dear, 
And  then  your  every  care  and  fear 
May  vvliistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 


/  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 
And  a1  the  tunes  that  eer  I  played 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid, 
Was  whistle  o'er  the  lave  o'/. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we'se  be  there, 
And  Oh  !  sae  nicely's  we  will  fare  ; 
We'll  bouse  about,  till  Daddie  Care 
Sings  whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 

J  am,  Sec. 
M 


Sae  mcrrily's  the  bancs  well  pyke, 
And  sun  oursels  about  Ihe  dyke, 
And  at  our  Unsure  when  we  like, 
We'll  whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 

/  am,  Sec. 

But  bless  me  wi'  your  heav'n  o'  charms, 
And  while  1  kittle  hair  on  thairms, 
Hunger,  cauld,  and  a'  sic  harms, 
May  whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 

/  am,  Sec. 


RECITATIVO. 


Her  charms  had  struck  a  sturdy  Caird 

As  weel  as  poor  Gut-scraper; 
He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard, 

And  draws  a  roosty  rapier — 
He  swoor.  by  a'  was  swearing  worth, 

To  spit  him  like  a  pliver, 
Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 

Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi'  ghastly  e'e,  poor  tweedle-dee 

Upon  his  hunkers  bended, 
And  pray'd  for  grace,  wi'  ruefu'  face, 

And  sae  the  quarrel  ended. 
But  tho'  his  little  heart  did  grieve 

When  round  the  tinkler  prest  her, 
He  feign'd  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve, 

When  thus  the  Caird  address'd  her ; 


Tune—"  Clout  the  Cauldron." 


My  bonny  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinkler  is  my  station  ; 
I've  travell'd  round  all  Christian  ground 

In  this  my  occupation  ; 
I've  taen  the  gold,  I've  been  enroll'd 

Jn  many  a  noble  squadron ; 
But  vain  they  search'd,  when  off  I  march'd 

To  go  and  clout  the  cauldron. 

Vve  taen  the  gold,  Sec. 


Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither'd  imp, 

Wi'  a'  his  noise  and  caprin, 
And  tak  a  share  wi'  those  that  bear 

The  budget  and  the  apron  ; 
And  by  that  stowp,  my  faith  and  houp, 

And  by  that  dear  Kilbadgie,* 
If  e'er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant, 

May  I  ne'er  wat  my  craigie. 

And  by  that  sloup,  Sec. 


*  A  peculiar  sort  of  Whisky,  so  called  ;  u  great  fa. 
vourite  with  Poosie  Nansie's  clubs. 


162 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


RECITATIVO. 


The  Caird  prevail'd — th1  unblushing  fair 
In  bis  embraces  sunk. 

Partly  wi'  love  o'ercome  sae  fair, 

partly  she  was  drunk. 
Sir  Violino,  with  an  air 

That  show'd  a  man  o'  spunk, 
Wish'd  unison  between  tlie  pair, 
And  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 

But  hurchin  Cupid  shot  a  shaft, 

That  play'd  a  dame  a  shavie, 
The  fiddler  rak'd  her  fore  and  aft, 

Behint  the  chicken  cavie. 
Her  lord,  a  wight  o'  Homer's  craft, 

Tho'  limping  wi'  the  spavie, 
lb'  hirpl'd  up,  and  lap  like  daft, 

And  shor'd  them  Dainty  Davie 

O  boot  that  night. 

fie  was  a  care-defying  blade 

As  ever  Bacchus  listed, 
Tho'  Fortune  sairupon  him  laid, 

His  heart  she  ever  miss'd  it. 
He  had  nae  wish,  but — to  be  glad. 

Nor  want — but  when  he  thirsted  ; 
He  hated  nought  but — to  be  sad, 

And  thus  the  Muse  suggested 

His  sans  that  night. 


Tune—"  For  a'  that,  and  a'  that." 

I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard, 

Wi'  gentlefolks,  and  a'  that :  . 

But  Homer-like,  the  glowran  byke, 
Frae  town  to  town  I  draw  that. 


For  a1  that,  and  a'  that, 

And  twice  as  meikle's  a'  that ; 

Tve  lost  but  ane,  Pre  twa  beh  in\ 
Pve  wife  enough,  for  a'  that. 

I  never  drank  the  Muses'  stank, 
Castalia's  burn,  and  a'  that ; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams, 
My  Helicon  I  ca'  that. 

For  o'  that,  ice. 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair, 
Their  humble  slave  and  a1  that; 

But  lordly  will,  1  hold  it  still 
A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 
Wi'  mutiKt  1  love,  and  a'  that  ] 

But  for  how  lang  the  flie  may  slnng, 
Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  o'  that,  &c. 


Their  tricks  and  craft  hae  put  me  daft, 
They've  ta'en  me  in,  and  a'  that ; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  "  Here's  the  sex! 
I  like  the  jads  for  a'  that. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

And  twire  as  meikle's  a'  that, 
My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid, 

They're  wtlcome  UlVt,for  a  thai. 


RECITATIVO. 

So  sung  the  bard — and  Nansie's  wa's 
Shook  with  a  thunder  of  applause, 

Re-echo'd  from  each  mouth  ; 
They  tooVn'd   their  pocks,  and  pawn'd  their 

duds, 
They  scarcely  left  to  co'er  their  fuds, 

To  quench  their  lowan  drouth. 

Then  owTre  again,  the  jovial  thrang, 

The  poet  did  request, 
To  lowsc  his  pack,  and  wale  a  sang, 
A  ballad  o1  the  best ; 
He,  rising,  rejoicing, 

Between  his  twa  Deborahs, 
Looks  round  him,  and  found  them 
Impatient  for  the  chorus. 


Tune — "  Jolly  Mortals,  fill  your  Glasses." 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

.Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring; 
Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 

And  in  raptures  let  us  sing: 


A  fig  for  those  by  lata  protected! 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast! 
Courts  fur  cowards  were  erected, 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title?  What  is  treasure? 

What  is  reputation's  care? 
If  we  lead  a  fife  of  pleasure, 

'Tis  no  matter,  how  or  where ! 
A  fig,  Sec. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fablo, 
Round  we  wander  all  the  day; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable, 
Hug  our  doxies  on  Ihc  hay. 
A  fig,  &c. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Thro'  the  country  lighter  rove? 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 
\\  ltness  brighter  scenes  of  love? 
^  fig,  &e. 


BURNS'  POEMS. 


163 


Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes  ; 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum 

Who  have  characters  to  lose. 
A  fig,  &e. 


Here's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets  ! 

Here's  to  all  the  wandering  train  L 
Hero's  our  raged  brats  and  callets  ! 

One  and  all  cry  out,  Amen  ! 

A  Jig,  ke. 


EXTEMPORE. 

April,  1782. 

0  why  the  deuce  should  I  repine, 
And  be  an  ill  foreboder.3 

Pm  twenty  three,  and  five  feet  nine— 
I'll  go  and  be  a  sodger. 

1  gat  some  gear  wi'  meikle  care, 

1  held  it  wcel  thegither; 
But  now  it's  gane  and  something  inair, 
I'll  go  and  bo  a  sodger. 


THE  END. 


GLOSSARY. 


The  ch  and  gh  have  always  the  guttural  sound.  The  sound  of  the  English  diphthong 
oo,  is  commonly  spelled  ou.  The  French  u,  a  sound  which  often  occurs  in  the 
Scottish  language,  is  marked  oo,  or  ui.  The  a  in  genuine  Scottish  words,  except 
when  forming  a  diphthong,  or  followed  by  an  e  mute  after  a  single  consonant,  sounds 
generally  like  the  Broad  English  a  in  wall.  The  Scottish  diphthong  at,  always, 
and  ea,  very  often,  sound  like  the  French  e  masculine.  The  Scottish  diphthong 
ey,  sounds  like  the  Latin  ei. 


A. 


A',  All. 

Aback,  away,  aloof. 

Abeigh,  at  a  shy  distance. 

Aboon,  above,  up. 

Abread,  abroad,  in  sight. 

Abreed,  in  breadth. 

Addle,  putrid  water,  &c. 

Ae,  one. 

Aff,  off;  Aff  loof,  unpremeditated. 

Afore,  before 

Aft,  oft. 

Aften,  often. 

Agley,  off  the  right  line  ;  wrong. 

Aiblins,  perhaps. 

Ain,  own. 

Airle-penny,  Airles,  earnest-money. 

Aim,  iron. 

Aith,  an  oath. 

Aits,  oats. 

Aiver,  an  old  horse. 

Aizle,  a  hot  cinder. 

Alake,  alas. 

Alone,  alone. 

Akwart,  awkward. 

Amaist,  almost. 

Among,  among. 

An',  and ;  if. 

Ance,  once. 

Ane,  one ;  and. 

Anent,  over  against. 

Anither,  another. 

Ase,  ashes. 

Asklent,  asquint;  aslant. 

Asteer,  abroad;  stirring. 

Athart,  athwart. 

Aught,  possession  ;  as,  in  a'  my  aught, 

in  all  my  possession. 
Auld  lung  syne,  olden  time,  days  of 

other  years. 


Auld,  old. 

Auldfarran,  or  auldfarrant,  sagacious, 

cunning,  prudent. 
Ava,  at  all. 
Awa',  away. 
Awfu',  awful. 

Awn,  the  beard  of  barley,  oats,  &c. 
Awnie,  bearded. 
Ayont,  beyond. 


E. 


BA\  Ball. 

Backets,  ash  boards. 

Backlins,  coming;  coming  back,  return- 
ing. 

Back,  returning. 

Bad,  did  bid. 

Baide,  endured,  did  stay. 

Baggie,  the  belly. 

Bainie,  having  large  bones,  stout. 

Bairn,  a  child. 

Bairntime  a  family  of  children,  a  brood. 

Baith,  both. 

Ban,  to  swear. 

Bane,  bone. 

Bang,  to  beat ;  to  strive. 

Bardie,  diminutive  of  bard. 

Barefit,  barefooted. 

Barmie,  of,  or  like  barm. 

Batch,  a  crew,  a  gang. 

Batts,  bots. 

Baudrons,  a  cat. 

Bauld,  bold. 

Bawk,  bank. 

Baws'nt,  having  a  white  stripe  down 
the  face. 

Be,  to  let  be  ;  to  give  over ;  to  cease. 

Bear,  barley. 

Beastie,  diminutive  of  beast. 

Beet,  to  add  fuel  to  fire. 

Beld,  bald.  • 


166 


GLOSSARY. 


P,t  lyve,  by  and  by. 

mto  the  spcnce  or  parlour ;    a 
spence. 

Benlomond,  a  noted  mountain  in  Dum- 
bartonshire. 

/;  thankit,  grace  after  meat. 

/>'  uk,  a  book. 

Bicker,  a  kind  of  wooden  dish ;  a  short 
race. 

Bie,  or  Bicld,  shelter. 

Bien,  wealthy,  plentiful. 

Big,  to  build. 

Biggin,  building  ;  a  house. 

t'>>ugit,  built. 

Bill,  a  bull. 

Billie,  a  brother ;  a  young  fellow. 

Bing,  a  heap  of  grain,  potatoes,  &c. 

Birk,  birch. 

Birken-shaw,  Birchen-wood-shaw,  a 
small  wood. 

Birkie,  a  clever  fellow. 

Birring,  the  noise  of  partridges,  &c 
when  they  spring. 

Bit,  crisis,  nick  of  time. 

Bizz,  a  bustle,  to  buzz. 

Blastie,  a  shrivelled  dwarf;  a  term  of 
contempt. 

Blastit,  blasted. 

Blate,  bashful,  sheepish. 

Blather,  bladder. 

Blaud,  a  flat  piece  of  any  thing;  to  slap. 

Blaw,  to  blow,  to  boast. 

Bleerit,  bleared,  sore  with  rheum. 

BJcert  and  blin',  bleared  and  blind. 

Bleezing,  blazing. 

Blellum,  an  idle  talking  fellow. 

Blether,  to  talk  idly ;  nonsense. 

BletKrin,  talking  idly. 

Blink,  a  little  while ;  a  smiling  look ; 
to  look  kindly ;  to  shine  by  fits. 

Blinker,  a  term  of  contempt. 

Blinkin,  smirking. 

Blue-gown,  one  of  those  beggars  who 
8  nnually,  on  the  king's  birth-day, 
a  blue  cloak  or  gown,  with  a  badge. 

Bluid,  blood. 

Bluntie,  a  sniveller,  a  stupid  person. 

Blype,  a  shred,  a  large  piece. 

Boi  /-,  to  vomit,  to  gush  intermittently. 
-/,  gushed,  vomited. 

Bodle,  a  small  gold  coin. 

Bogles,  spirits,  hobgoblins. 

Bonnie,  or  bonny,  handsome,  beautiful. 

Bonnock,E  kind  of  thick  cake  of  bread, 
a  small  jannock,  or  loaf  made  of  oat- 
meal. 

Boord,  a  board. 

Boortree,  the  shrub  elder  ;  planted 
much  of  old  in  hedgesgof  barn-yards, 
&  c. 

I,  behoved,  must  needs. 


Bore,  a  hole  in  the  wall. 

Botch,  an  angry  tumour. 

Bousing,  drinking. 

Bow-kail,  cabbage. 

Bowt,  bended,  crooked. 

Brackens,  fern. 

Brae,  a  declivity  ;  a  precipice  ;  the 
slope  of  a  hill. 

Braid,  broad. 

Braindg't,  reeled  forward 

Braik,  a  kind  of  harrow. 

Braindge,  to  run  rashly  forward. 

Brak,  broke,  made  insolvent. 

Branks,  a  kind  of  wooden  curb  for 
horses. 

Brash,  a  sudden  illness. 

Brats,  coarse  clothes,  rags,  &c. 

Brattle,  a  short  race  ;  hurry  ;  fury. 

Braw,  fine,  handsome. 

Brawly,  or  brawlie,  very  well;  finely  ; 
heartily. 

Braxie,  a  morbid  sheep. 

Breastie,  diminutive  of  breast. 

Breastit,  did  spring  up  or  forward. 

Breckan,  fern. 

Brecf,  an  invulnerable  or  irresistible 
spell. 

Brecks,  breeches. 

Brent,  smooth. 

Brewin,  brewing. 

Brie,  juice,  liquid. 

Brig,  a  bri 

Brunstane,  brimstone. 

Brisket,  the  breast,  the  bosom. 

Brithcr,  a  brother. 

Brock,  a  badger. 

Brogue,  a  hum  ;   a  trick. 

Broo,  broth ;  liquid;  water. 

Broose,  broth  ;  a  race  at  country  wed- 
dings, who  shall  first  reach  the  bride- 
groom's house  on  returning  from 
church. 

Browster-wives,  ale-house  wives. 

Brugh,  a  burgh. 

Bruilzie,  n  broil,  a  combustion. 

Brunt,  did  burn,  burnt. 

Brust,  to  burst ;  hurst. 

Buchan-bullers,  the  boiling  of  the  sen 
among  the  rocks  on  the  coast  of 
Buchan. 

Buckskin,  an  inhabitant  of  Virginia. 

Bught,  a  pen. 

Bughtin-time,  the  time  of  collecting  the 
sheep  in  t  he  pens  to  be  milked. 

Buirdly,  stout-made;  broad-made. 

Bum-clock,^  humming  beetle  that  flies 
in  the  summer  evenings. 
ipiing,  bumming  as  bees. 

Bummle,  to  blunder. 

Bummler,  a  blunderer. 

Bunker,  a  window-scat. 


GLOSSARY. 


167 


Burdies,  diminutive  of  birds. 

Bure,  did  bear. 

Burn,  water ;  a  rivulet. 

Bumewin,  i.  e.  burn  the  wind,  a  black- 
smith. 

Burnie,  diminutive  of  burn. 

Buskie,  bushy. 

Buskit,  dressed. 

Busks,  dresses. 

Bussle,  a  bustle ;  to  bustle. 

Buss,  shelter. 

But,  hot,  with  ;  without. 

But  an'  ben,  the  country  kitchen  and 
parlour. 

Byhimsel,  lunatic,  distracted. 

Byfce,  a  bee-hive. 

Byre,  a  cow-stable ;  a  sheep-pen. 


CA',  To  call,  to  name ;  to  drive. 

Ca't,  or  ca'd,  called,  driven ;  calved. 

Cadger,  a  carrier. 

Cadie,  or  caddie,  a  person  ;  a  young 
fellow. 

Caff,  chaff. 

Caird,  a  tinker. 

Cairn,  a  loose  heap  of  stones. 

Calf-ward,  a  small  enclosure  for  calves. 

Callan,  a  boy. 

Caller,  fresh ;  sound  ;  refreshing. 

Canie,  or  cannie,  gentle,  mild;  dexterous. 

Cannilie,  dexterously  ;  gently. 

Cantie,  or  canty,  cheerful,  merry. 

Cantraip,  a  charm,  a  spell. 

Cap-stane,  cope-stone ;  key-stone 

Careerin,  cheerfully. 

Carl,  an  old  man. 

Cdrlin,  a  stout  old  woman. 

Cartes,  cards. 

Caudron,  a  caldron. 

Cauk  and  keel,  chalk  and  red  clay. 

Could,  cold. 

( \  ■  ■:/>.  a  wooden  drinking-vessel. 

Cesses,  taxes. 

Chanter,  a  part  of  a  bag-pipe. 

Chap,  a  person,  a  fellow  ;  a  blow. 

Chaup,  a  stroke,  a  blow. 

Cheekit,  cheeked. 

Cheep,  a  chirp  ;  to  chirp. 

Chiel,  or  checl,  a  young  fellow. 

Chimla,  or  chimlic,  a  fire-grate,  a  fire- 
place. 

Chimla-lug,  the  fireside. 

Chattering,  shivering,  trembling. 

Chockin,  chocking. 

Chow,  to  chew  ;  cheek  for  chow,  side  by 
side. 

Chuffie,  fat-faced. 

Clachan,  a  small  village  about  a  church ; 
a  hamlet. 


Claise,  or  claes,  clothes. 

Claith,  cloth. 

Claithing,  clothing. 

Claivers,  nonsense ;  not  speaking  sense. 

Clap,  clapper  of  a  mill. 

Clarkit,  wrote. 

Clash,  an  idle  tale,  the  story  of  the  day 

Clatter,  to  tell  idle  stories ;  an  idle  story. 

Claught,  snatched  at,  laid  hold  of. 

Claut,  to  clean  ;  to  scrape. 

Clauted,  scraped. 

Clavcrs,  idle  stories. 

Claw,  to  scratch. 

Cleed,  to  clothe. 

Cleeds,  clothes. 

Cleekit,  having  caught. 

Clinkin,  jerking  ;   clinking. 

C/inkumbell,  he  who  rings  the  church- 
bell. 

Clips,  shears. 

Clishmaclaver,  idle  conversation. 

Clock,  to  hatch  ;  a  beetle. 

Ctorkin,  hatching. 

Cloot,  the  hoof  of  a  cow,  sheep,  &c. 

Clootie,  an  old  name  for  the  Devil. 

Clour,  a  bump  or  swelling  after  a  blow 

Cluds,  clouds. 

Coaxin,  wheedling. 

Coble,  a  fishing-boat. 

Cockernony,  a  lock  of  hair  tied  upon  a 
girl's  head;  a  cap. 

Coft,  bought. 

Cog,  a  wooden  dish. 

Coggie,  diminutive  of  cog. 

Coila,  from  Kyle,  a  district  of  Ayrshire ; 
so  called,  saith  tradition,  from  Coil, 
or  Coilus,  a  Pictish  monarch. 

Collie,  a  general,  and  sometimes  a  par- 
ticular name  for  country  curs. 

Co/lieshangie,  quarrelling,  an  uproar. 

Commaun,  command. 

Cood,  the  cud. 

Coof,  a  blockhead  ;  a  ninny. 

Cookit,  appeared,  and  disappeared  by 
fits. 

Coast,  did  cast. 

Coot,  the  ancle  or  foot. 

Cootie,  a  wooden  kitchen  dish  : — also, 
those  fowls  ivhose  legs  are  clad  with 
fathers,  are  said  to  be  cootie. 

Corbies,  a  species  of  the  crow. 

Core,  corps  ;  party  ;  clan. 

Corn't,  fed  with  oats. 

Cotter,  the  inhabitant  of  a  cot-house,  or 
cottage. 

Couthie,  kind,  loving. 

Cove,  a  cave. 

Cowe,  to  terrify ;  to  keep  under,  to  lop ; 
a  fright;  abranch  of  furze,  broom,  &c. 

Cowp,  to  barter;    to  tumble  over;  a. 


168 


GLOSSARY. 


Coicpit,  tumbled. 

Cowrin,  cowering. 

Cowt,  a  colt. 

I  tug. 

Cozily,  snugly. 

Crabbit,  crabbed,  fretful. 

Crack,  conversation;  to  converse. 

Crackin,  conversing. 

Craft,  or  croft,  a  field  near  a  house  (in 
old  husbandry). 

Craiks,  cries  or  calls  incessantly;  abird. 

( 'rambo-clink,  or  crambo-jingle,  rhymes, 
doggrel  verses. 

Crank,  the  noise  of  an  ungreased  wheel. 

Crankous,  fretful,  captious. 

Cranreuch,  the  hoar  frost. 

Crap,  a  crop ;  to  crop. 

Craw,  a  crow  of  a  cock;  a  rook. 

Creel,  a  basket ;  to  have  one's  wits  in  a 
creel,  to  be  crazed ;  to  be  fascinated. 

Creepie-stool,  the  same  as  cutty-stool. 

( 'reeshie,  greasy. 

Crood,  or  <  roud,  to  coo  as  a  dove. 

Croon,  a  hollow  and  continued  moan  ; 
to  make  a  noise  like  the  continued 
roar  of  a  bull ;  to  hum  a  tune. 

Crooning,  humming. 

Crouchie,  crook-backed. 

Crouse,  cheerful ;  courageous. 

Crousely,  cheerfully;  courageously. 

Crowdie,  a  composition  of  oat-meal  and 
boiled  water,  sometimes  from  the 
broth  of  beef,  mutton,  &c. 

Crowdie-time,  breakfast  time. 

Crowlin,  crawling. 

Crummock,  a  cow  with  crooked  horns. 

Crump,  hard  and  brittle ;  spokenof bread. 

Crunt,  a  blow  on  the  head  with  a  cudgel. 

Cuif,  a  blockhead,  a  ninny. 

Cummock,  a  short  staff  with  a  crooked 
head. 

Curchie,  a  courtesy. 

Curlt  /-,  a  player  at  a  game  on  the  ice, 
practised  in  Scotland,  called  curling. 

Curlie,  curled,  whose  hair  falls  natu- 
rally in  ringlets. 

Curling,  a  will  known  game  on  the  ice. 

Curmurring,  murmuring ;  a  slight  rum- 
bling noise. 

Curpin,  the  crupper. 

Cushat,  the  dove,  or  wood-pigeon. 

Cutty,  short ;  a  spoon  broken  in  the 
middle. 

Cidty-stool,  the  stool  of  repentance. 

D. 

DADDIE,  a  father. 
Dqffin,  merriment ;  foolish™ 
Daft,  merry,  giddy  ;  foolish. 


Daimen,  rare,  now  and  then  ;  daimen- 

ickcr,  an  ear  of  corn  now  and  then. 
Dainty,     pleasant,     good     humoured, 

agreeable. 
Daise,  dot  c,  in  stupify. 
Dubs,  plains,  valleys. 
Darklins,  darkling. 
Daud,  to  thrash,  to  abuse. 
Daur,  to  dare. 
Daurt,  dared. 

Daurg,  or  daurk,  a  day's  labour. 
Davoc,  David. 
Dawd,  a  large  piece. 
Dawtit,  or  dawtet,  fondled,  caressed. 
Dearies,  diminutive  of  dears. 
Dearth fu\  dear. 
Deave,  to  deafen. 

Deil-ma-care  !  no  matter  !  for  all  that ! 
Deleerit,  delirious. 
Descrive,  to  describe. 
Dight,  to  wipe  ;  to  clean  corn  from 

chaff. 
Dight,  cleaned  from  chaff. 
Ding,  to  worst,  to  push. 
Dink,  neat,  tidy,  trim. 
Dinna,  do  not. 

Dirl,  a  slight  tremulous  stroke  or  pain 
Dizen,  or  dizz'n,  a  dozen. 
Doited,  stupified,  hebetated. 
Dolt,  stupified,  crazed. 
Donsie,  unlucky. 
Dool,  sorrow ;  to  sing  dool,  to  lament, 

to  mourn. 
Duos,  doves. 
Dorty,  saucy,  nice. 
Douce,  or  douse,  sober,  wise,  prudent. 
Douce/y,  soberly,  prudently. 
Dough I,  was  or  were  able. 
Doup,  backside. 

Doup-skelper,  one  that  strikes  tin1  hill. 
Dour  and  din,  sullen  and  sallow. 
Doure, stout, durable;  sullen, stubborn* 
Dow,  am  or  are  able,  can. 
Dowff,  pithless,  wanting  force. 
Dowie,  worn   with  grief,  fatigue,  &c. 

half  asleep. 
Downa,  am  or  arc  not  able,  cannot. 
Doylt,  stupid. 

DozeiVt,  stupified,  impotent. 
Drap,  a  drop;  to  drop. 
Draigle,  to  soil  by  trailing,  to  dragglt 

among  wet,  &c. 
Dropping,  dropping. 
Draunting,  drawling;   of  a  slow  cnun 

ciation. 
Dm />,  to  ooze,  fo  drop. 
Dreigh,  tedious,  long  about  it. 
Dribble,  drizzling;  slaver. 
Drift,  a  drove. 
Droddum,  t  he  breech. 


GLOSSARY. 


169 


Drone,  part  of  a  bagpipe. 

Droop-rumpVt,  that  drops  at  the  crup- 
per. 

Droukit,  wet. 

Draunting,  drawling. 

Drouth,  thirst,  drought. 

Drucken,  drunken. 

Drumly,  muddy. 

Drummock,  meal  and  water  mixed  in  a 
raw  state. 

Drunt,  pet,  sour  humour. 

Dub,  a  small  pond. 

Drith,  rags,  clothes. 

Dud/lie,  ragged. 

Duns;,  worsted;  pushed,  driven. 

Dunted,  beaten,  boxed. 

Dush,  to  push  as  a  ram,  &-C. 

Dusht,  pushed  by  a  ram,  ox,  &c 


E. 


E'E,  the  eye. 

Een,  the  eyes. 

E'enin,  evening. 

Eerie,  frighted,  dreading  spirits. 

Eild,  old  age. 

Elbuck,  the  elbow. 

Eldritch,  ghastly,  frightful. 

Eller,  an  elder,  or  church  officer 

En',  end. 

Enbrugh,  Edinburgh. 

Km  ugh,  enough. 

Especial,  especially. 

Ettle,  to  try,  to  attempt. 

Eydent,  diligent. 

F. 

FT,  fall;  lot;  to  fall. 

Fa's,  does  fall ;  water-falls. 

Faddom't,  fathomed. 

Foe,  a  foe. 

Faem,  foam. 

Faiket,  unknown. 

Fairin,  a  fairing;  a  present. 

Fallow,  fellow. 

Fund,  did  find. 

Farl,  a  cake  of  oaten  bread,  &c. 

Fash,  trouble,  care ;  to  trouble  to  care 

for. 
Fasht,  troubled. 
Fasteren  e'en,  Fasten's  Even. 
Fauld,  a  fold  ;  to  fold 
Faulding,  folding. 
Faut,  fault. 
Faute,  want,  lack. 
Fawsont,  decent,  seemly. 
Feal,  a  field ;  smooth. 
Fearfu',  frightful. 
Fear't,  frighted. 
Feat,  neat,  spruce. 

M  2 


Fecht,  to  fight. 
Fechtin,  fighting. 
Feck,  many,  plenty. 

Ft  i  ket;  an  under  waistcoat  with  sleeves. 
Feckfu1,  large,  brawny,  stout. 
Feckless,  puny,  weak,  silly. 
Feckly,  weakly. 

Fcg,  a  fig. 

Feide,  feud,  enmity. 

Feirrie,  stout,  vigorous,  healthy. 

Fell,  keen,  biting;  the  flesh  immediately 
under  the  skin  ;  a  field  pretty  level, 
on  the  side  or  top  of  a  hill. 

Fen,  successful  struggle  ;  fight. 

Fend,  to  live  comfortably. 

Ferlie,  or  ferley,  to  wonder ;  a  w7onder  ; 
a  term  of  contempt. 

Fetch,  to  pull  by  fits. 

Fetch't,  pulled  intermittently. 

Fidge,  to  fidget. 

Fiel,  soft,  smooth. 

Find,  fiend,  a  petty  oath. 

Fier,  sound,  healthy ;  a  brother ;  a  friend. 

Fiss/e,  to  make  a  rustling  noise ;  to 
fidget ;  a  bustle. 

Fit,  a  foot. 

Fittic-lan',  the  nearer  horse  of  the  hind- 
most pair  in  the  plough. 

Fizz,  to  make  a  hissing  noise  like  fer- 
mentation. 

Flnincn,  flannel. 

Fleech,  to  supplicate  in  a  flattering 
manner. 

Fleech'd,  supplicated. 

Fleechin,  supplicating. 

Fleesh,  a  fleece. 

F/eg,  a  kick,  a  random. 

Flether,  to  decoy  by  fair  words. 

Fletherin,  flattering. 

Fley,  to  scare,  to  frighten. 

Flichter,  to  flutter,  as  young  nestlings 
when  their  dam  approaches. 

Flinders,  shreds,  broken  pieces,  splin- 
ters. 

Flinging-tree,  a  piece  of  timber  hung 
by  way  of  partition  between  two 
horses  in  a  stable ;  a  flail. 

Flisk,  to  fret  at  the  yoke.  Fliskit, 
fretted. 

Flitter,  to  vibrate  like  the  wings  of 
small  birds. 

Flittering,  fluttering,  vibrating. 

Flunkie,  a  servant  in  livery. 

Fodgel,  squat  and  plump. 

Foord,  a  ford. 

Forbears,  forefathers. 

Forbye,  besides. 

For/aim,  distressed;  worn  out, jaded 

Forfoughten,  fatigued. 

Forgather,  to  meet,  to  encounter  with 

Fnrgir,  to  forgive. 


170 


GLOSSARY. 


Forjeslcet,  jaded  with  fatigue. 
/  'otki  r.  fodder. 
Fou,  full  ;  drunk. 
Foughten,  troubled,  harassed. 

.   plenty,  enough,  or  more   than 
enough, 

a  bushel,  &c;  also  a  pitch-fork. 
.  from ;  off. 
1  'rammit,  strange,  estranged  from,  at 

enmity  with. 
Freath,  froth. 
Frien',  friend. 
Fir,  full. 
Fud,  the  scut,  or  tail  of  the  hare,  cony, 

&c. 
Faff,  to  blow  intermittently. 
Fuff't,  did  blow. 
Funnie,  full  of  merriment 
Fur,  a  furrow. 
Furm,  a  form,  bench. 
Fyke,  trifling  cares  ;  to  piddle,  to  be  in 

a  fuss  about  trifles. 
Fyle,  to  soil,  to  dirty 
Fyl't,  soiled,  dirtied. 


G. 


GAB,  the  mouth ;  to  speak  boldly,  or 

pertly. 
Gahrr-lunzic,  an  old  man. 
Gadsman,  a  ploughboy,  the  boy  that 

drives  the  horses  in  the  plough. 
Gae,  to  go  ;  gaed,  went ;  gaen,  or  gane, 

gone ;  gaun,  going. 
Gaet,  or  gate,  way,  manner ;  road. 
Gairs,  triangular  pieces  of  cloth  sewed 

on  the  bottom  of  a  gown,  &c. 
Gang,  to  go,  to  walk. 
Gar,  to  make,  to  force  to.  * 
Gar't,  forced  to. 
Garten,  a  garter. 
Gash,  wise,  sagacious ;  talkative ;  to 

convolve. 
Gastrin,  conversing. 
Gaucy,  jolly,  large. 
Gaud,  a  plough. 
Gear,  riches;  goods  of  any  kind 
Geek,  to  toss  the  head  in  wantonness  or 

scorn. 
Gcd,  a  pike. 

Gentles,  great  folks,  gentry. 
Genty,  elegantly  formed,  neat. 
Geordie,  a  guinea. 
Get,  a  child,  a  young  one. 
Gliaist,  a  ghost. 

Gie,  to  give  ;  gied,  gave ;  gien,  given. 
Giftie,  diminutive  of  gift. 
Giglets,  playful  girls. 
Gillie,  diminutive  of  gill. 
Gilpey,  a  half  grown,  half  informed  boy 

or  girl,  :i  romping  lad,  a  hoiden. 


Gimmer,  a  ewe  from  one  to  two  years 
old. 

Gin,  if;  against. 

Gipsey,  a  young  girl. 

Girn,  to  grin,  to  twist  the  features  in 
rage,  agony,  &c. 

Girning,  grinning. 

Gizz,  a  periwig. 

Glaikit,  inattentive,  foolish. 

Glaive,  a  sword. 

Gawky,  half-witted,  foolish,  romping. 

Glaizie,  glittering;  smooth  like  glass 

Glaum,  to  snatch  greedily 

Glaum' d,  aimed,  snatched. 

Gleck,  sharp,  ready. 

Gleg,  sharp,  ready. 

Gleib,  glebe.. 

Glen,  a  dale,  a  deep  valley. 

Gley,a  squint;  to   squint;  a-gley,  ofF 
at  a  side,  wrong. 

(1  lib-gabbet,  smooth  and  ready  in  speech. 

Glint,  to  peep. 

Glinted,  peeped. 

G/intin,  peeping. 

Gloamin,  the  twilight. 

Glowr,  to  stare,  to  look ;  a  stare,  a  look. 

Glowred,  looked,  stared. 

Glunsh,  a  frown,  a  sour  look. 

Goavan,  looking  round  with  a  strange, 
inquiring  gaze;  staring  stupidly. 

Gowan,  the  flower  of  the  wild  daisy, 
hawk- weed,  &c. 

Gowany,  daisied,  abounding  with  dai- 
sies. 
Gowd,  gold. 
Gowff,  the  game  of  Golf;  to  strike  as 

the  bat  does  the  ball  at  golf. 
Gowff 'd,  struck. 

Gowk,  a  cuckoo ;  a  term  of  contempt. 
Gowl,  to  howl. 

Grane,  or  grain,  a  groan ;  to  groan. 
Grain'd    and    grunted,   groaned    and 

granted. 
Graining,  groaning. 
Graip,  a  pronged  instrument  for  clean- 
ing stables. 
Graith,  accoutrements,  furniture,  dress, 

gear. 
Grannie,  grandmother. 
Grape,  to  grope. 
Grapit,  groped. 
('<  rat,  wept,  shed  tears. 
Great,  intimate,  familiar. 
Gree,  to  agree ;  to  bear  the  gree,  to  be 

decidedly  victor. 
Gree't,  agreed. 
Greet,  to  shed  tears,  to  weep. 
(in i tin,  crying,  weeping. 
Grippet,  catched,  seized. 
Groat,  to  get  the  whistle  of  one's  groul, 
to  play  a  losing  game. 


GLOSSARY. 


171 


Oronsome,  loathsomely,  grim. 

Grozct,  a  gooseberry. 

Grumph,  a  grunt ;  to  grunt. 

Grumphie,  a  sow. 

Orun,  ground. 

Grunstane,  a  grindstone. 

Gruntle,  the  phiz ;  a  grunting  noise. 

Grunzie,  mouth. 

Grushie,  thick  ;  of  thriving  growth- 

Gude,  the  Supreme  Being  ;  good. 

Ovid,  good. 

Gxdd-morning,  good  morrow. 

G  aid -e'en,  good  evening. 

Guidman  and  guidwife,  the  master  and 
mistress  of  the  house  ;  young'  guid- 
man, a  man  newly  married. 

Guid-vrillie,  liberal;  cordial. 

Gmdfather,  guidmbther,  father-in-law, 
and  mother-in-law; 

Gully,  or  gullie,  a  large  knife. 

Gum  lie,  muddy. 

Gusty,  tasteful. 


II. 


HA',  hall. 

Ha'-Bible,  the  great  bible  that  lies  in 

the  hall. 
Hue,  to  have. 
Haen,  had,  the  participle 
Hact,fient  haet,  a  petty  oath  of  nega- 
tion; nothing. 
Haffet,  the  temple,  the  side  of  the  head. 
Hqfflins,  nearly  half,  partly. 
Hag,  a  scar,  or  gulf  in  mosses,  and  moors. 
Haggis,  a  kind  of  pudding  boiled  in  the 

stomach  of  a  cow  or  sheep. 
Hain,  to  spare,  to  save. 
Hairid,  spared. 
Hairst,  harvest. 
Ilni th,,  a  petty  oath. 
Haivers,  nonsense,  speaking  without 

thought. 
Hal',  or  hold,  an  abiding  place. 
Hah,  whole,  tight,  healthy. 
Haly,  holy. 
Ha  me,  home. 
Hallan,  a  particular  partition-wall  in  a 

cottage,  or  more  properly  a  seat  of 

turf  at  the  outside. 
Hallowmas,   Hallow-eve,  the  31st  of 

October. 
Hame!y,  homely,  affable. 
Han',  or  kauri,  hand. 
Hap,  an  outer  garment,  mantle,  plaid, 

&c.  to  wrap,  to  cover;  to  hop. 
Hopper,  a  hopper. 
Happing,  hopping. 
Hap  step  an'  hup,  hop  skip  and  leap. 
Harkit,  Hearkened. 
Ham,  very  coarse  linen. 


Hash,  a  fellow  that  neither  knows  how 
to  dress  nor  act  with  propriety. 

Hastit,  hastened. 

Hand,  to  hold. 

Haughs,  low  lying,  rich  lands ;  valleys. 

Haurl,  to  drag  ;  to  peel. 

Jlaurlin,  peeling. 

Haverel,  a  half-witted  person  ;  half- 
witted. 

Havins,  good  manners,  decorum,  good 
sense. 

Hawkie,  a  cow,  properly  one  with  a 
white  face 

Hi  a  pit,  heaped. 

Healsome,  healthful,  wholesome. 

Hearse,  hoarse. 

Hi  art,  hear  it. 

Heather,  heath. 

Hech  !  oh  !  strange. 

Hecht,  promised ;  to  foretell  something 
that  is  to  be  got  or  given  ;  foretold; 
the  thing  foretold ;  offered. 

Heckle,  a  board,  in  which  are  fixed  a 
number  of  sharp  pins,  used  in  dress- 
ing hemp,  flax,  &c. 

Heeze,  to  elevate,  to  raise. 

Helm,  the  rudder  or  helm. 

Herd,  to  tend  flocks ;  one  who  tends 
flocks. 

Herrin,  a  herring. 

Herry,  to  plunder  ;  most  properly  to 
plunder  birds'  nests. 

Herryment,  plundering,  devastation 

Hersel,  herself;  also  a  herd  of  cattle, 
of  any  sort. 

Het,  hot. 

He  ugh,  a  crag,  a  coalpit. 

Hilch,  a  hobble  ;  to  halt. 

llihhin,  halting. 

Himsel,  himself. 

Jliney,  honey. 

Hing,  to  hang. 

llirple,  to  walk  crazily,  to  creep. 

Hissel,  so  many  cattle  as  one  person 
can  attend. 

Histie,  dry  ;  chapped  ;  barren. 

Hitch,  a  loop,  a  knot. 

Hizzie,  a  hussy,  a  young  girl. 

Hoddin,  the  motion  of  a  sage  country- 
man riding  on  a  cart-horse  ;  humble. 

Hog-score^  a  kind  of  distance  line,  in 
curling,  drawn  across  the  rink. 

Hog-shoulher,  a  kind  of  horse  play,  by 
justling  with  the  shoulder  ;  tojustle. 

Hool,  outer  skin  or  case,  a  nut-t-hell  ; 
a  peas-cod. 

Hoolie,  slowly,  leisurely. 

Hoolie!  take  leisure,  stop. 

Hoard,  a  hoard  ;  to  hoard. 

Hoordit,  horded. 

'/•/>-»,  a  spoon  made  of  horn. 


172 


GLOSSARY. 


Hornie,  one  of  the  many  names  of  the 
devil. 

11  si.  or  '    ist,  to  cough;  a  cough. 

//  ttin,  c  mghing. 
. 
d,   turned  topsyturvy;  hlended, 
mixed. 

Houghmagandie,  fornication 

Houlet,  an  owl. 

Housie,  diminutive  of  bouso. 

Hove,  to  heave,  to  sw 

Hov'd,  heaved,  swelled. 

//  ■■■•lie,  a  mid  v. 

Howe,  hollow  ;  a  hollow  or  dell. 

ickit,  sunk  in  the  back,  spoken 
of  a  horse,  &c. 

Howff,  a  tippling  house ;  a  house  of  re- 
sort. 

Hoick,  to  dig. 

Howkit,  digged. 

How  kin,  digging. 

How  let,  an  owl. 

Hoy,  to  urge. 

Hoy't,  urged. 

Hoyse,  to  pull  upwards. 

Hoyte,  to  amble  crazily. 

Hug-hoc,  diminutive  of  Hugh. 

J lurcheon,  a  hedgehog. 

Hurdles,  the  loins  ;  the  crupper. 

Hushion,  a  cushion. 


1. 


I',  in. 

Jcker,  an  ear  of  corn. 
Ier-oe,  a  great-grandchild. 
Ilk,  or  Ilka,  each,  every. 
Ill-willie,   ill-natured,  malicious,   nig- 
gardly. 
Ingine,  genius,  ingenuity. 
Ingle,  fire  ;   fire-place. 
lse,  I  shall  or  will. 
Ither,  other;  one  another. 


J. 


J  AD,  jade ;  also  a  familiar  term  among 
country  folks  for  a  giddy  young  girl. 

Jauk,  to  dally,  to  trifle. 

Jaukin,  trifling,  dallying. 

Jaup,  a  jerk  of  water ;  to  jerk  as  agi- 
tated water. 

Jaw,  coarse  raillery;  to  pour  out;  to 
shut,  to  jerk  as  »vater. 

Jerkinet,  a  jerkin,  or  short  gown. 

Jillet,  a  jilt,  a  giddy  girl. 

Jimp,  to  jump;  slender  in  the  waist; 
hand  i  me. 

Jimps,  easy  stays. 

to   dodge,  to    turn   a  corner;  a 
sudden  turning  ;  a  corner. 


Jinker,  that  turns   quickly ;    a   gay,- 

sprightly  girl ;  a  wag. 
Jinkin,  dodging. 
Jirk,  a  jerk. 

Jocteleg,  a  kind  of  knife. 
Jouk,  to  stoop,  to  bow  the  head. 
Jow,  tojow,  a  verb  which  includes  both 

the  swinging    motion   and   pealing 

sound  of  a  large  bell. 
Jundie,  to  justle. 


K. 


KAE,  a  daw. 

Kail,  colewort ;  a  kind  of  broth. 

Kail-runt,  the  stem  of  colewort. 

Kain,  fowls,  &c.  paid  as  rent  by  a  far- 
mer. 

Kebbuck,  a  cheese. 

Keckle,  to  giggle ;  to  titter. 

Keek,  a  peep,  to  peep. 

Kelpies,  a  sort  of  mischievous  spirits, 
said  to  haunt  fords  and  ferries  at  night, 
especially  in  storms. 

Ken,  to  know ;  kend  or  kenn'd  knew. 

Kennin,  a  small  matter. 

Kenspeckle-  well  known,  easily  known. 

Ket,  matted,  hairy;  a  fleece  of  wool. 

Kilt,  to  truss  up  the  clothes. 

Kimmer,  a  young  girl,  a  gossip. 

Kin,  kindred;  kin',  kind,  adj. 

King's-hood,  a  certain  part  of  the  en- 
trails of  an  ox,  &c. 

Kintra,  country. 

Kintra  Cooser,  country  stallion. 

Kirn,  the  harvest  supper ;  a  churn. 

Kirsen,  to  christen,  or  baptize. 

Kist,  a  chest ;  a  shop  counter. 

Kill  hen,  any  thing  that  eats  with  bread ; 
to  serve  for  soup,  gravy,  &c. 

Kith,  kindred. 

Kittle,  to  tickle ;  ticklish ;  lively,  apt. 

Kittlin,  a  young  cat. 

Kiuttle,  to  cuddle. 

Kiuttlin,  cuddling. 

Knaggie,  like  knags,  or  points  of  rocks. 

Knap,  to  strike  smartly,  a  smart  blow. 

Knappin-hammer,  a  hammer  for  break- 
ing stones. 

Knowe,  a  small  round  hillock. 

Knurl,  a  dwarf. 

Kye,  cows. 

,  a  district  in  Ayrshire. 

Kyte,  the  belly. 

Kythe,  to  discover ;  to  show  one's  self 

L. 

LADDIE,  diminutive  of  lad. 
Laggi  n,  the  angle  between  the  side  and 
bottom  of  a  wooden  dish. 


GLOSSARY. 


173 


Laigh,  low. 

Lairing,  wading,  and  sinking  in  enow, 
mud,  &c. 

Laith,  loath. 

JL,aithfu\  bashful,  sheepish. 

Lallans,  the  Scottish  dialect  of  the 
English  language. 

Lambie,  diminutive  of  lamb. 

Lampit,  a  kind  of  shell-fish,  a  limpit. 

Lan\  land ;  estate. 

Lane,  lone ;  my  lane,  thy  lane,  fyc.  my- 
self alone,  &c. 

Lanely,  lonely. 

Lang,  long ;  to  think  lang,  to  long,  to 
weary. 

Lap,  did  leap. 

Lave,  the  rest,  the  remainder,  the  others. 

Laverock,  the  lark. 

Lawin,  shot,  reckoning,  bill. 

Latvian,  lowland. 

Lea'e,  to  leave. 

Leal,  loyal,  true,  faithful. 

Lea-rig,  grassy  ridge. 

Lear,  (pronounce  lare,)  learning. 

Lee-lang,  live-long. 

Leesome,  pleasant. 

Leezo-me,  a  phrase  of  congratulatory 
endearment ;  I  am  happy  in  thee,  or 
proud  of  thee. 

Leister,  a  three  pronged  dart  for  strik- 
ing fish. 

Leugh,  did  laugh 

Leuk,  a  look  ;  to  look. 

Libbet,  gelded. 

Lift,  the  sky. 

Lightly,  sneeringly ;  to  sneer  at 

Lilt,  a  ballad ;  a  tune ;  to  sing. 

Limmer,  a  kept  mistress,  a  strumpet. 

Limp't,  limped,  hobbled 

Link,  to  trip  along 

Linkin,  tripping. 

Linn,  a  water-fall ;  a  precipice. 

Lint,  flax ;  lint  i'  the  bell,  flax  in  flower. 

Lintwhite,  a  linnet. 

Loan,  or  loanin,  the  place  of  milking. 

Loof,  the  palm  of  the  hand 

Loot,  did  let. 

Looves,  plural  of  loof. 

Loun,  a  fellow,  a  ragamuffin ;  a  woman 
of  easy  virtue. 

Loup,  jump,  lean 

Lowe,  a  flame. 

Lowin,  flaming. 

Lowrie,  abbreviation  of  Lawrence 

Lowse,  to  loose. 

Lows'd,  loosed. 

Lug,  the  ear ;  a  handle. 

Lugget,  having  a  handle. 

Luggie,  a  small  wooden  dish  with  a 
handle. 

Lum,  the  chimney. 


Lunch,  alar  ge  piece  of  cheese,  flesh,  &c. 
Lunl,  a  column  of  smoke ;  to  smoke. 
Luntin,  smoking. 
Lyart,  of  a  mixed  colour,  gray. 

M. 

MAE,  more. 

Mair,  more. 

Maist,  most,  almost. 

Maistly,  mostly. 

Mak,  to  make. 

Makin,  making. 

Mail  en,  a  farm. 

Mallie,  Molly. 

Mang,  among. 

Manse,  the  parsonage  house,  where  the 
minister  lives. 

Manteele,  a  mantle. 

Mark,  marks,  (This  and  several  other 
nouns  which  in  English,  require  an  s, 
to  form  the  plural,  are  in  Scotch,  like 
the  words  sheep,  deer,  the  same  in 
both  numbers.) 

Marled,  variegated ;  spotted. 

Mar's  year,  the  year  1715. 

Mashlum,  meslin,  mixed  corn. 

Mask,  to  mash,  as  malt,  &c. 

Maskin-pat,  a  tea-pot. 

Maud,  maad,  a  plaid  worn  by  shep- 
herds, &c. 

Maukin,  a  hare. 

Maun,  must. 

Mavis,  the  thrush 

Maw,  to  mow. 

Mawin,  mowing. 

Mcere,  a  mare. 

Meikle,  meickle,  much. 

Melancholious,  mournful 

Melder,  corn,  or  grain  of  any  kind,  sent 
to  the  mill  to  be  ground. 

Mell,  to  meddle.  Also  a  mallet  for 
pounding  barley  in  a  stone  trough. 

Melvie,  to  soil  with  meal. 

Men',  to  mend. 

Mense,  good  manners,  decorum. 

Menseless,  ill-bred,  rude,  impudent. 

Messin,  a  small  dog. 

Midden,  a  dunghill. 

Midden-hole,  a  gutter  at  the  bottom  of 
a  dunghill. 

Mim,  prim,  affectedly  meek. 

Min\  mind  ;  resemblance. 

Mind't,  mind  it ;  resolved,  intending. 

Minnie,  mother,  dam. 

Mirk,  mirkest,  dark,  darkest. 

Misca1,  to  abuse,  to  call  name3 

Misia'd,  abused. 

Mislear'd,  mischievous,  unmannerly. 

Misleuk,  mistook. 

Mither,  a  mother. 


174 


GLOSSARY. 


Mi.rtir-ma.rtir,  confusedly  mixed. 

Jltoistify,  to  moisten.  . 

Mony,  or  moni( ,  many. 

Mools,   dust,  earth,   the   earth  of  the 

grave.     To  rake  V  the  moots  ;  to  lay 

in  the  dust. 
Moop,  to  nibble  as  a  sheep. 
Moor  Ian',  of  or  belonging  to  moors. 
Morn,  the  next  day,  to-morrow. 
Mou,  the  mouth. 
Moudiwort,  a  mole. 
Mousic,  diminutive  of  mouse. 
Muckle,  or  mickle,  great,  big,  much. 
Musie,  diminutive  of  muse. 
Muslin-kail,  broth,  composed  simply  of 

water,  shelled-barley,  and  greens. 
Mutchkin,  an  English  pint. 
Mysel,  myself. 

N. 

NA,  no,  not,  nor. 

Nae,  no,  not  any. 

Naelhing,  or  naithing,  nothing. 

Naig,  a  horse. 

Nane,  none. 

Nappy,  ale ;  to  be  tipsy. 

Negleckit,  neglected. 

Neuk,  a  nook. 

Niest,  next. 

Nieve,  the  fist. 

Nicvrfu',  handful. 

Niffer,  an  exchange ;  to  exchange,  to 

barter. 
Niger,  a  negro. 

Nine-taiVd-cat,  a  hangman's  whip. 
Nit,  a  nut. 

Norland,  of  or  belonging  to  the  north. 
Notic't,  noticed. 
Nowte,  black  cattle. 

O. 

O',  of. 

Ochels,  name  of  mountains. 

O  hailh,  O  faith  !  an  oath. 

Ony,  or  onie,  any. 

Or,  is  often  used  for  ere,  before 

Ora,  or  orra,  supernumerary,  that  can 

be  spared. 
0%  of  it. 

Ourie,  shivering ;   drooping. 
Oursel,  or  oursels,  ourselves. 
Outlcrs,  cattle  not*  housed. 
Ower,  over  ;  too. 
Ower-hip,   a  way  of  fetching  a   blow 

with  the  hammer  over  the  arm. 


P. 


rACK,    intimate,    familiar  ;     twelve 
6tone  of  wool. 


Painch,  paunch. 

Paitrick,  a  partridge. 

Pang)  to  cram. 

Parle,  speech. 

Pdrritch,  oatmeal  pudding,  a  well- 
known  Scotch  dish. 

Pat,  did  put ;  a  pot. 

Paltle,  or  pcttle,  a  plough-staff. 

Paughty,  proud,  haughty. 

Pauley,  or  pawkie,  cunning,  sly. 

Pay't,  paid ;  beat. 

Pech,  to  fetch  the  breath  short,  as  in 
an  asthma. 

Pechan,  the  crop  the  stomach. 

Peelin,  peeling,  the  rind  of  fruit. 

Pet,  a  domesticated  sheep,  &c. 

Pettle,  to  cherish ;  a  plough-staff. ' 

Philibegs,  short  petticoats  worn  by  the 
Highlandmen. 

Phraise,  fair  speeches,  flattery ;  to  flat- 
ter. 

Phraisin,  flattery. 

Pibroch,  Highland  war  music  adapted 
to  the  bagpipe. 

Pickle,  a  small  quantity. 

Pine,  pain,  uneasiness. 

Pit,  to  put. 

Plarad,  a  public  proclamation. 

Plack,  an  old  Scotch  coin,  the  third 
part  of  a  Scotch  penny,  twelve  of 
which  make  an  English  penny. 

Plackless,  pennyless,  without  money 

Platie,  diminutive  of  plate. 

Plcv\  or  pleugh,  a  plough. 

Pliskie,  a  trick. 

Poind,  to  seize  cattle  or  goods  for  rent, 
as  the  laws  of  Scotland  allow. 

Poortith,  poverty. 

Pou,  to  pull. 

Pouk,  to  pluck. 

Poussie,  a  hare,  or  cat. 

Pout,  a  poult,  a  chick. 

Pou't,  did  pull. 

Powlhery,  like  powder. 

Pow,  the  head,  the  skull, 

Pownie,  a  little  horse. 

Powlher,  or  pouther,  powder. 

Preen,  a  pin. 

Prent,  to  print ;  print. 

Prie,  to  taste. 

Prte'd,  tasted. 

Prief,  proof. 

Prig,  to  cheapen ;  to  dispute. 

Priggin,  cheapening. 

Pr'nnsie,  demure,  precise. 

Propone,  to  lay  down,  to  propose. 

Provoses,  provosts. 

Puddock-stool,  a  mushroom,  fungus. 

Pund,  pound  ;  pounds. 

Pyle, — apyle  o'  cciff,  a  single  grain  of 
chaff. 


GLOSSARY. 


175 


Q- 


QUAT,  to  quit. 
Quak,  to  quake. 
Quei/,  a  cow  from  one  to  two  years  old- 


R. 


RAGWEED,  the  herb  ragwort. 

JRaible,  to  rattle  nonsense. 

Rair,  to  roar. 

Raize,  to  madden,  to  inflame. 

Ram-feezl'd,  fatigued ;  overspread. 

Ram-stam,  thoughtless,  forward. 

Raploch,  [properly)  a  coarse  cloth  ;  but 

used  as  an  adnounfor  coarse. 
Rarely,  excellently,  very  well. 
Rash,  a  rush ;  rash-buss,  a  bush  of  rushes. 
Ration,  a  rat. 

Raucle,  rash  ;  stout ;  fearless. 
Raught,  reached. 
Raw,  a  row. 
Rax,  to  stretch. 
Ream,  cream ;  to  cream. 
Reaming;  brimful,  frothing. 
Reave,  rove. 
Reck,  to  heed. 
Rede,  counsel ;  to  counsel. 
Red-wat-shod,  walking  in  blood  over 

the  shoe-tops. 
Red-wud,  stark  mad. 
Ree,  half-drunk,  fuddlsd. 
Reek,  smoke. 
Reekin,  smoking. 
Reekit,  smoked ;  smoky. 
Remead,  remedy. 
Requite,  requited. 
Rest,  to  stand  restive. 
Restit,  stood  restive;  stunted;  withered. 
Restricked,  restricted. 
Rew,  to  repent  to  compassionate. 
Rirf,  reef,  plenty. 
Rief  randies,  sturdy  beggars. 
Rig,  a  ridge. 
Rigwiddie,  rigwoodie,  the  rope  or  chain 

that  crosses  the  saddle  of  a  horse  to 

support  the  spokes  of  a  cart ;  spare, 

withered,  sapless. 
Rin,  to  run,  to  melt ;  rinnin,  running. 
Rink,  the  course  of  the  stones ;  a  term 

in>curling  on  ice. 
Rip,  a  handful  of  unthreshed  corn. 
Riskit,  made  a  noise  like  the  tearing  of 

roots. 
Rockin,  spinning  on  the  rock  or  distaff. 
Rood,  stands  likewise  for  the   plural 

roods. 
Roon,  a  shred,  a  border  or  selvage. 
Roose,  to  praise,  to  commend. 
Roosty,  rusty. 


Roun',  round,  in  the  circle  of  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Roupet,  hoarse,  as  with  a  cold. 

Routine,  plentiful. 

Row,  to  roll,  to  wrap. 

Row't,  rolled,  wrapped. 

Rowte,  to  low,  to  bellow. 

Rowth,  or  routh,  plenty. 

Rowtin,  lowing. 

Rozet,  rosin. 

Rung,  a  cudgel. 

Runkled,  wrinkled. 

Runt,  the  stem  of  colewort  or  cabbage. 

Ruth,  a  woman's  name ;  the  book  so 
called ;  sorrow. 

Ryke,  to  reach. 


s. 


SAE,  so. 

Soft,  soft. 

Sair,  to  serve ;  a  sore. 

Sairly,  or  sairlie,  sorely. 

Sair't,  served. 

Sark,  a  shirt ;  a  shift. 

Sarkit,  provided  in  shirts. 

Saugh,  the  willow. 

Saul,  soul. 

Saumont,  salmon. 

Saunt,  a  saint. 

Saut,  salt,  adj.  salt. 

Saw,  to  sow. 

Sawin,  sowing. 

Sax,  six 

Scaith,  to  damage,  to  injure ;  injury. 

Scar,  a  cliff. 

Scaud,  to  scald. 

Scauld,  to  scold. 

Scaur,  apt  to  be  scared. 

Scawl,  a  scold ;  a  termigant. 

Scon,  a  cake  of  bread. 

Sconjier,  a  loathing ;  to  loathe. 

Scraich,  to  scream  as  a  hen,  partridge, 

&c. 
Screed,  to  tear ;  a  rent. 
Scrieve,  to  glide  swiftly  along. 
Scrievin,  gleesomely ;  swiftly. 
Scrimp,  to  scant. 
Scrimpet,  did  scant ;  scanty. 
See'd,  did  see. 
Seizin,  seizing. 

Sel,  self ;  a  body's  sel,  one's  self  alone. 
Sell't,  did  sell. 
Sot',  to  send. 

Sen't ,  I,  &c.  sent,  or  did  send  it ;  send  it 
Servan\  servant. 
Settlin,  settling ;  to  get  a  settlin,  to  be 

frighted  into  quietness. 
Sets,  sets  off,  goes  away. 
Shachlcd,  distorted ;  shapeless. 
Shaird,  a  shred,  a  shard. 


176 


GLOSSARY. 


Shangan,  a  stick  cleft  at  one  end  for 
putting  the  tail  of  a  dog,  &c.  into, 
by  way  of  mischief,  or  to  frighten 
him  away. 
Shaver,  a  humorous  wag  ;  a  barber. 
Shaw,  to  show  ;  a  small  wood  in  a  hol- 
low. 
Sheen,  bright,  shining. 
Sheepshank;    to  think   one's   self  nae 

sheep-shank,  to  be  conceited. 
Sherra-moor,  sheriff-moor,  the  famous 
battle  fought  in  the  rebellion,  A.  D. 
1715. 
Sheugh,  a  ditch,  a  trench,  a  sluice. 
Shiel,  a  shed. 
Shi /I,  shrill. 

Shog,  a  shock ;  a  push  off  at  one  side. 
Shool,  a  shovel. 
Shoon,  shoes. 

Shore,  to  offer,  to  threaten. 
Shor'd,  offered. 
Shouther,  the  shoulder. 
Shure,  did  shear,  shore. 
Sic,  such. 

Sicker,  sure,  steady. 
Sidclins,  sidelong,  slanting 
Siller,  silver ;  money. 
Simmer,  summer. 
Sin,  a  son. 
Sin',  since. 
Skaith,  see  scailh 
Skellum,  a  worthless  fellow. 
Skelp,  to  strike,  to  slap ;  to  walk  with 
a  smart  tripping  step ;  a  smart  stroke. 
Skelpie-limmer,  a  reproachful  term  in 

female  scolding. 
Skelpin,  stepping,  walking. 
Skiegh,  or  skeigh,  proud,  nice,  high- 
mettled. 
Skinklin,  a  small  portion. 
Skirl,  to  shriek,  to  cry  shrilly. 
Skirling,  shrieking,  crying. 
Skirl' t,  shrieked. 
Sklent,  slant ;  to  run  aslant,  to  deviate 

from  truth. 
Sklented,  ran,  or  hit,  in  an  oblique  di- 
rection. 
Skoulh,  freedom  to  converse  without 

restraint ;  range,  scope. 
Skriegh,  a  scream  ;  to  scream. 
Skyrm,  shining  ;  making  a  great  show 
Skyte,  force,  very  forcible  motion. 
Slae,  a  sloe. 
Slade,  did  slide. 

Slap,  a  gate ;  a  brcacli  in  a  fence. 
Slaver,  saliva;  to  emit  saliva. 
Slaw,  6low. 
Slee,  6ly;  sleest,  sliest. 
Sleekit,  sleek;  sly. 
SUddcry,  slippery. 


Slype,  to  fall  over,  as  a  wet  furrow 
from  the  plough. 

Slypet,  fell. 

Sma',  small. 

Smeddum,  dust,  powder ;  mettle,  sense. 

Smiddy,  a  smithy. 

Smoor,  to  smother. 

Smoor'd,  smothered. 

Smoidic,  smutty,  obscene,  ugly. 

Smytrie,  a  numerous  collection  of  small 
individuals. 

Snapper,  to  stumble,  a  stumble. 

Snash,  abuse,  Billingsgate. 

Snaw,  snow  ;  to  snow. 

Snaw-broo,  melted  snow. 

Snawie,  snowy. 

Sneck,  snick,  the  latch  of  a  door. 

Sned,  to  lop,  to  cut  off. 

Sneeshin,  snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill,  a  snuff-box. 

Snell,  bitter,  biting. 

Snick-drawing,  trick-contriving,  crafty. 

Snirtle,  to  laugh  restrainedly. 

Snood,  a  ribbon  for  binding  the  hair. 

Snool,  one  whose  spirit  is  broken. with 
oppressive  slavery ;  to  submit  tamely, 
to  sneak. 

Snoove,  to  go  smoothly  and  constantly , 
to  sneak. 

Snowk,  to  scent  or  snuff,  as  a  dog,  &c. 

Snowkit,  scented,  snuffed. 

Sonsie,  having  sweet  engaging  looks  ; 

lucky,  jolly. 
Soom,  to  swim. 
Sooth,  truth,  a  petty  oath. 
Sough,  a  heavy  sigh,  a  sound  dying  on 

the  ear. 
Souple,  flexible  ;  swift. 
Souter,  a  shoemaker. 
Sowens,  a  dish  made  of  oatmeal ;  the 
seeds  of  oatmeal  soured,  &c.  flum- 
mery. 
Sowp,  a  spoonful,  a  small  quantity  of 

any  thing  liquid. 
Sowth,  to  try  over  a  tune  with  a  low 

whistle. 
Sowther,  solder ;  to  solder,  to  cement. 
Spae,  to  prophesy,  to  divine. 
Spaul,  a  limb. 

Spairge,  to  dash,  to  soil,  as  with  mire. 
Spaviet,  having  the  spavin. 
Spean,  spane,  to  wean. 
Spent,  or  spate,  a  sweeping  torrent,  after 

rain  or  thaw.         • 
Sped,  to  climb. 
Spence,  the  country  parlour. 
Spitr,  to  ask,  to  inquire. 
Spier't,  inquired. 
Splatter,  a  splutter,  to  splutter. 
Splcughan,  a  tobacco-pouch. 


GLOSSARY. 


177 


Splore,  a  frolic  ;  a  noise,  riot. 

Sprackle,  sprachle,  to  clamber. 

Sprattlc,  to  scramble. 

Spreckled,  spotted,  speckled. 

Spring,  a  quick  air  in  music ;  a  Scot- 
tish reel. 

Sprit,  a  tough-rooted  plant,  something 
like  rushes. 

Sprittie,  full  of  sprit. 

Spunk,  fire,  mettle ;  wit. 

Spunkie,  mettlesome,  fiery ;  will-o'-wisp, 
or  ignisjatuus. 

Spurtle,  a  stick  used  in  making  oatmeal 
pudding  or  porridge. 

Squad,  a  crew,  a  party. 

Squatter,  to  flutter  in  water,  as  a  wild 
duck,  &c. 

Squattle,  to  sprawl. 

Squeel,  a  scream,  a  screech  ;  to  scream. 

Stacker,  to  stagger. 

Stack,  a  rick  of  corn,  hay,  &c. 

Staggie,  the  diminutive  of  stag. 

Stalwart,  strong  stout. 

Stant,  to  stand ;  startt,  did  stand. 

Stane,  a  stone. 

Stan?,  an  acute  pain ;  a  twinge  ;  to 
sting. 

Stank,  did  stink;  a  pool  of  standing 
water. 

Stap,  stop. 

Stark,  stout. 

Startle,  to  run  as  cattle  stung  by  the 
gad-fly. 

Staumrel,  a  blockhead  ;  half-witted. 

Staw,  did  steal ;  to  surfeit 

Stech,  to  cram  the  belly. 

Stechin  cramming. 

Steek,  to  shut ;  a  stitch. 

Steer,  to  molest ;  to  stir. 

Steeve,  firm,  compacted. 

Stell,  a  still. 

Sten,  to  rear  as  a  horse. 

Sten't,  reared. 

Stcjits,  tribute  ;  dues  of  any  kind. 

Stey,  steep ;  steyest,  steepest. 

Stibble,  stubble ;  stibble-rig,  the  reaper 
in  harvest  who  takes  the  lead. 

Stick  an'  stow,  totally,  altogether. 

Stile,  a  crutch  ;  to  halt,  to  limp. 

Stimpart,  the  eighth  part  of  a  Winches- 
ter bushel. 

Stirk,  a  cow  or  bullock  a  year  old. 

Stock,  a  plant  or  root  of  colewort,  cab- 
bage, &c. 

Stockin,  a  stocking;  throwing  the  stockin, 
when  the  bride  and  bridegroom  are 
put  into  bed,  and  the  candle  out,  the 
former  throws  a  stocking  at  random 
among  the  company,  and  the  person 
whom  it  strikes  is  the  next  that  will 
be  married. 

N 


Stoiter,  to  6tagger,  to  stammer. 

Stooked,  made  up  in  shocks  as  corn. 

Stoor,   sounding  hollow,   strong,   and 
hoarse. 

Stot,  an  ox. 

Stoup,   or  stowp,  a  kind  of  jug  or  dish 
with  a  handle. 

Sloure,  dust,  more  particularly  dust  in 
motion. 

Stowlins,  by  stealth. 

Stown,  stolen. 

Stoyte,  to  stumble. 

Strack,  did  strike. 

Strae,  straw ;  to  die  a  fair  strae  death, 
to  die  in  bed. 

Straik,  did  strike. 

Straikit,  stroked. 

Strappan,  tall  and  handsome. 

Slraught,  straight,  to  straighten. 

Streek,  stretched,  tight ;  to  stretch. 

Striddle,  to  straddle. 

Stroan,  to  spout,  to  piss. 

Studdie,  an  anvil. 

Stumpie,  diminutive  of  stump. 

Strunt,  spirituous  liquor  of  any  kind  ; 
to  walk  sturdily ;  huff,  sullenness. 

Stuff,  corn  or  pulse  of  any  kind. 

Sturt,  trouble ;  to  molest. 

Sturtin,  frighted. 

Sucker,  sugar. 

Sud,  should. 

Sugh,  the  continued  rushing  noise  of 
wind  or  water. 

Suthron,  southern ;  an  old  name  for  the 
English  nation. 

Swaird,  sward. 

Swall'd,  swelled. 

Swank,  stately,  jolly. 

Swankie,  or  swanker,  a  tight  strapping 
young  fellow  or  girl. 

Swap,  an  exchange ;  to  barter. 

Swarf,  to  swoon ;  a  swoon. 

Swat,  did  sweat. 

Swatch,  a  sample. 

Swats,  drink ;  good  ale. 

Sweaten,  sweating. 

Sweer,  lazy,  averse  ;  dead-swecr,  ex- 
tremely averse. 

Swoor,  swore,  did  swear. 

Sicingc,  to  beat ;  to  whip. 

Swirl,  a  curve ;  an  eddying  blast,  or 
pool ;  a  knot  in  wood. 

Swirlie,  knaggie,  full  of  knots. 

Swith,  get  away. 

Swithcr,  to  hesitate  in  choice ;  an  ir- 
resolute wavering  in  choice. 

Syne,  since,  ago ;  then. 

T. 

TACKETS,  a  kind  of  nails  for  driving 
into  the  heels  of  shoes. 


178 


GLOSSARY. 


Tae,  a  toe;  three-tae'd,  having  three 
prongs. 

Tairge,  a  target. 

Tak,  to  take  ;  takin,  taking. 

Tamtallan,  the  name  of  a  mountain. 

Tangle,  a  pea-weed. 

Tap,  the  top. 

Tapetless,  heedless,  foolish. 

Tarrow,  to  murmur  at  one's  allowance. 

Tarrow't,  murmured. 

Tarry-brecks,  a  sailor. 

Tauld,  or  tald,  told. 

Taupic,  a  foolish,  thoughtless  young 
person. 

Tauted,  or  tautie,  matted  together ;  spo- 
ken of  hair  or  wool. 

Tawie,  that  allows  itself  peaceably  to  he 
handled  ;  spoken  of  a  horse,  cow,  &c. 

Teat,  a  small  quantity. 

Teen,  to  povoke ;  provocation. 

Tedding,  spreading  after  the  mower. 

Ten-hours  bite,  a  slight  feed  for  the 
horses  while  in  the  yoke,  in  the  fore- 
noon. 

Tent,  a  field-pulpit ;  heed,  caution  ;  to 
take  heed;  to  tend  or  herd  cattle. 

Tentie,  heedful,  caution 

Tentlcss,  heedless. 

Teugh,  tough. 

Thar/,-,  thatch;  thackarf  rape, clothing, 
necessaries. 

Thae,  these. 

Thuirms,  small  guts;  fiddle-strings. 

Thankit,  thanked. 

Theekit,  thatched. 

Thegither,  together. 

Themscl,  themselves. 

Thick,  intimate,  familiar. 

Thieveless,  cold,  dry,  spited ;  spoken  of 
a  person's  demeanour. 

Thir,  these. 

Thirl,  to  thrill. 

Thirled,  thrilled,  vibrated. 

Thole,  to  suffer,  to  endure. 

Thome,  a  thaw;   to  thaw. 
.Thowless,  slack,  lazy. 

Throng,  throng;  a  crowd. 

Thrapple,  throat,  windpipe. 

Throve,  twenty-four  sheaves  or  two 
shocks  of  corn ;  a  considerable  num- 
ber. 

77/  ra  w,  to  sprain,  to  twist ;  to  contradict. 

Thrawin,  twisting,  &c. 

Thrawn,  sprained,  twisted,  contradict- 
ed. 

Threap,  to  maintain  by  dint  of  assertion. 

Threshin,  thrashing. 

Threteen,  thirteen. 

Thristle,  thistle. 

11  with  :  to  mak< 

Throulher,  pell-mell,  confusedly. 


Th  ud,  to  make  a  loud  intermittent noiseJI 

Thumpit,  thumped 

Thyscl,  thyself. 

Till't,  to  it. 

Timmer,  timber. 

Tjne,  to  lose  ;  tint,  lost. 

Tinkler,  a  tinker. 

Tint  the  gate,  lost  the  way. 

Tip,  a  ram. 

Tippence,  twopence. 

Tirl,  to  make  a  slight  noise;  to  uncover- 

'J'irlin,  uncovering. 

Tithcr,  the  other. 

Tittle,  to  whisper. 

Tittlin,  whispering. 

Tocher,  marriage  portion. 

Tod,  a  fox. 

Toddle,  to  totter,  like  the  walk  of  a  child. 

Toddlin,  tottering. 

Toom,  empty,  to  empty. 

Toop,  a  ram. 

Toun,  a  hamlet ;  a  farm-house. 

Tout,  the  blast  of  a  horn  or  trumpet ,  to 
blow  a  horn,  &c. 

Tow,  a  rope. 

Towmond,  a  twelvemonth. 

Towzie,  rough,  shaggy. 

Toy,  a  very  old  fashion  of  female  head- 
dress. 

Toyte,  to  totter  like  old  age. 

Transmugrify'd,  transmigrated,  meta- 
morphosed. 

Trashtrie,  trash. 

Treics,  trowsers. 

Trickle,  full  of  tricks. 

Trig,  spruce,  neat. 

Trimly,  excellently. 

Trow,  to  believe. 

Trowth,  truth,  a  petty  oath. 

Tryste,  an  appointment ;  a  fair. 

Trysted,  appointed ;  to  tryste,  to  make 
an  appointment. 

Try't,  tried. 

Tug,  raw  hide,  of  which  in  old  times 
plough-traces  were  frequently  made. 

Tulzie,  a  quarrel ;  to  quarrel,  to  fight. 

Twa,  two. 

Two-three,  a  few. 

'Twad,  it  would. 

Tirol,  twelve  ;  fval-pennie  worth,  a 
small  quantity,  a  penny-worth. 

N.  B.   One  penny  English  is  \2d  Scotch. 

Twin,  to  part. 

Tyke,  a  dog. 


U. 


UNCO,  strange,  uncouth;  very,  very 

great,  prodigious. 
/  ncos,  news. 

Unkenn'd  unknown. 


GLOSSARY. 


179 


Unsicker,  unsure,  unsteady. 

I  riiskaith'd,  undamaged,  unhurt. 

Unweeting,  unwittingly,  unknowingly. 

Upo',  upon. 

Urchin,  a  hedge-hog. 


VAP'RIN,  vapouring. 

Vera,  very. 

Virl,  a  ring  round  a  column,  &c. 

Viltle,  corn  of  all  kinds,  food. 

W. 

WA',  wall ;  wet's,  walls. 

Wabster,  a  weaver. 

Wad,  would ;  to  bet ;  a  bet,  a  pledge. 

Wadna,  would  not. 

Wae,  wo  ;  sorrowful. 

WaefiC,  woful,  sorrowful,  wailing. 

Waesucks !  or  waes-me !  alas !  O  the 

pity. 
Waft,  the  cross  thread  that  goes  from 

the  shuttle  through  the  web ;  woof. 
Wair,  to  lay  out,  to  expend. 
Wale,  choice ;  to  choose. 
Wold,  chose,  chosen. 
Walie,  ample,  large,  jolly;  also  an  in- 
terjection of  distress. 
Wame,  the  belly. 
Wamefu',  a  belly-full. 
Wanchancie,  unlucky. 
Wanrestfu' ,  restless. 
Wark,  work. 

Wark-lume,  a  tool  to  work  with. 
Warl,  or  warld,  world. 
Warlock,  a  wizard. 
Warly,   worldly,   eager  on   amassing 

wealth. 
Warran,  a  warrant ;  to  warrant. 
Warst,  worst. 

Warstl'd,  or  warsVd,  wrestled. 
Wastrie,  prodigality. 
Wat,  wet ;  /  wat,  I  wot,  I  know. 
Water-brose,  brose  made  of  meal  and 

water  simply,  without  the  addition  of 

milk,  butter,  &c. 
Wattle,  a  twig,  a  wand. 
Wauble,  to  swing,  to  reel. 
Waught,  a  draught. 
Waukit,  thickened  as  fullers  do  cloth. 
Waukrife,  not  apt  to  sleep. 
Waur,  worse ;  to  worst. 
Waur't,  worsted. 
Wean,  or  weanie,  a  child. 
Wearie,  or  weary  ;  many  a  weary  body, 

many  a  different  person. 
Weason,  weasand. 
Weaving  the  stocking.     See,  Stocking, 

p.  177. 


Wee,  little;  wee  things,  little  ones;  wee 
bit,  a  small  matter. 

Wecl,  well ;  weclfare,  welfare. 

Wect,  rain,  wetness. 

Weird,  fate. 

We'se,  we  shall. 

Wha,  who. 

Whaizle,  to  wheeze 

Whalpit,  whelped. 

Whang,  a  leathern  string ;  a  piece  of 
cheese,  bread,  &c.  to  give  the  strap- 
pado. 

Whare,  where ;  where'er,  wherever. 

Wheep,  to  fly  nimbly,  to  jerk;  penny - 
wheep,  small  beer. 

Whase,  whose. 

Whatreck,  nevertheless. 

Whid,  the  motion  of  a  hare,  running  but 
not  frighted ;  a  lie. 

Whiddcn,  running  as  a  hare  or  cony. 

Whigmelceries,  whims,  fancies,  crotch- 
ets. 

Whingin,  crying,  complaining,  fretting. 

Whirligigums,  useless  ornaments,  tri- 
fling appendages. 

Whissle,  a  whistle ;  to  whistle. 

Whisht,  silence ;  to  hold  one's  whisht,  to 
be  silent. 

Whisk,  to  sweep,  to  lash. 

Whiskit,  lashed. 

Whitter,  a  hearty  draught  of  liquor. 

Whun-stane,  a  whin-stone. 

Whyles,  whiles,  sometimes. 

Wi\  with. 

Wicht,  wight,  powerful,  strong ;  inven- 
tive ;  of  a  superior  genius. 

Wick,  to  strike  a  stone  in  an  oblique 
direction;  a  term  in  cm  ling. 

Wicker,  willow  (the  smaller  sort.) 

Wiel,  a  small  whirlpool. 

Wifie,  a  diminutive  or  endearing  term 
for  wife. 

Wilyart,  bashful  and  reserved  ;  avoid- 
ing society  or  appearing  awkward  in 
it ;  wild,  strange,  timid. 

Wimple,  to  meander. 

Wimpl't,  meandered. 

Wimplin,  waving,  meandering. 

Win,  to  win,  to  winnow. 

Win't,  winded  as  a  bottom  of  varn. 

Win',  wind ;  win's,  winds. 

Winna,  will  not. 

Winnock,  a  window. 

Winsome,  hearty,  vaunted,  gay. 

Wintle,  a  staggering  motion  ;  to  stag- 
ger, to  reel. 

Winze,  an  oath. 

Wiss,  to  wish. 

Withoutten,  without. 

Wizen'd,  hide-bound,  dried,  shrunk. 


180 


GLOSSARY. 


Wonmer,  a  wonder ;  a  contemptuous 
appellation! 

Wont,  dwells, 
wool. 

Woo,  to  court,  to  make  love  to. 

Woodie,  a  rope,  more  properly  one 
made  of  withes  or  willows. 

Wooer-bab,  the  garter  knotted  below 
the  knee  with  a  couple  of  loops. 

Wordy,  worthy. 

Worset,  worsted. 

Wow,  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  or 
wonder. 

Wrack,  to  teaze,  to  vex. 

Jf'railh,  a  spirit,  or  ghost;  an  appari- 
tion exactly  like  aliving  person,  whose 
appearance  is  said  to  forebode  the 
person's  approaching  death. 

Wrang,  wrong  ;  to  wrong. 

Wreeth,  a  drifted  heap  of  snow. 

Wud-mad,  distracted. 

Wumble,  a  wimble. 

Wyle,  to  beguile. 

Wyliecoat,  a  flannel  vest. 

Wyle,  blame ;  to  blame. 


YAD,  an  old  mare ;  a  worn  out  horse. 

Ye;  this  pronoun  is  frequently  used  for 
thou. 

Yearns,  longs  much. 

Yearlings,  born  in  the  same  year,  co- 
evals. 

Year  is  used  both  for  singular  and  plu- 
ral, years. 

Yearn,  earn,  an  eagle,  an  ospray. 

Yell,  barren,  that  gives  no  milk. 

Yerk,  to  lash,  to  jerk. 

Yerkit,  jerked,  lashed. 

Yestreen,  yesternight. 

Yett,  a  gate,  such  as  is  usually  at  the 
entrance  into  a  farm-yard  or  field. 

till,  ale. 

Yird,  earth. 

Yokin,  yoking ;  a  bout. 

Yont,  beyond. 

Yoursel,  yourself. 

Yoice,  a  ewe. 

Yowie,  diminutive  of  yowe. 

Yule,  Christmas. 


mora  ©jf  mraim^  ®wnro» 

WITH 

HIS  GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE; 

ALSO 

CRITICISM  ON  HIS  WRITINGS, 

AND 

OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  SCOTTISH  PEASANTRY. 
BY  DR.  CURRIE. 


DR.    CUnniE'S    DEDICATION-. 


OF  THE  ROYAL  NAVY. 


When  you  were  stationed  on  our  coast 
about  twelve  years  ago,  you  first  recom- 
mended to  my  particular  notice  the  poems 
of  the  Ayrshire  ploughman,  whose  works, 
published  for  the  benefit  of  his  widow  and 
children,  I  now  present  to  you.  In  a 
distant  region  of  the  world,  whither  the 
service  of  your  country  has  carried  you, 
you  will,  I  know,  receive  with  kindness 
this  proof  of  my  regard ;  not  perhaps 
without  some  surprise  on  finding  that  I 
have  been  engaged  in  editing  these  vo- 
lumes, nor  without  some  curiosity  to  know 
how  I  was  qualified  for  such  an  undertak- 
ing.    These  points  I  will  briefly  explain. 

Having  occasion  to  make  an  excursion 
to  the  county  of  Dumfries,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1792,  I  had  there  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  and  conversing  with  Burns.  It 
has  been  my  fortune  to  know  some  men 
of  high  reputation  in  literature,  as  well  as 
in  public  life ;  but  never  to  meet  any  one 
who,  in  the  course  of  a  single  interview, 
communicated  to  me  so  strong  an  impres- 
sion of  the  force  and  versatility  of  his  ta- 
lents. After  this  I  read  the  poems  then 
published  with  greater  interest  and  atten- 
tion, and  with  a  full  conviction  that,  ex- 
traordinary as  they  are,  they  afford  but 
an  inadeqflate  proof  of  the  powers  of  their 
unfortunate  author- 
Four  years  afterwards,  Burns  termi- 
nated his  career.  Among  those  whom 
the  charms  of  his  genius  had  attached  to 
him,  was  one  with  whom  I  have  been 
bound  in  the  ties  of  friendship  from  early 
life — Mr.  John  Syme  of  Ryedale.  Tin's 
gentleman,  after  the  death  of  Burns,  pro- 
moted with  the  utmost  zeal  a  subscription 
for  the  support  of  the  widow  and  children, 
to  which  their  relief  from  immediate  dis- 
tress is  to  be  ascribed  ;  and  in  conjunc- 
tion with  other  friends  of  this  virtuous 
and  destitute  family  he  projected  the  pub- 
lication of  these  volumes  for  their  benefit, 
by  which  the  return  of  want  might  be  pre- 
vented or  prolonged. 


To  this  last  undertaking  an  editor  and 
biographer  was  wanting,  and  Mr.  Syme's 
modesty  opposed  a  barrier  to  his  assum- 
ing an  office,  for  which  he  was  in  other 
respects  peculiarly  qualified.  On  this 
subject  he  consulted  me!  and  with  the 
hope  of  surmounting  his  objections,  I  of- 
fered him  my  assistance,  but  in  vain. 
Endeavours  were  used  to  procure  an  edi- 
tor in  other  quarters  without  effect.  The 
task  was  beset  with  considerable  difficul- 
ties, and  men  of  established  reputation 
naturally  declined  an  undertaking  to  the 
performance  of  which,  it  was  scarcely  to 
be  hoped  that  general  approbation  could 
be  obtained  by  any  exertion  of  judgment 
or  temper. 

To  such  an  office,  my  place  of  residence, 
my  accustomed  studies,  and  my  occupa- 
tions, were  certainly  little  suited  ;  but 
the  partiality  of  Mr.  Syme  thought  me  in 
other  respects  not  unqualified ;  and  his 
solicitations,  joined  to  those  of  our  excel- 
lent friend  and  relation,  Mrs.  Dunlop,  and 
of  other  friends  of  the  family  of  the  poet, 
I  have  not  been  able  to  resist.  To  re- 
move difficulties  which  would  otherwise 
have  been  insurmountable,  Mr.  Syme  and 
Mr.  Gilbert  Burns  made  a  journey  to 
Liverpool,  where  they  explained  and  ar- 
ranged the  manuscripts,  and  selected  such 
as  seemed  worthy  of  the  press.  From 
this  visit  I  derived  a  degree  of  pleasure 
which  has  compensated  much  of  my  la- 
bour. I  had  the  satisfaction  of  renewing 
my  personal  intercourse  with  a  much 
valued  friend,  and  of  forming  an  acquaint- 
ance with  a  man,  closely  allied  to  Burns 
in  talents  as  well  as  in  blood,  in  whose 
future  fortunes  the  friends  of  virtue  will 
not,  I  trust,  be  uninterested. 

The  publication  of  these  volumes  has 
been  delayed  by  obstacles  which  these 
gentlemen  could  neither  remove  nor  fore- 
see, and  which  it  would  be  tedious  to 
enumerate.  At  length  the  task  is  finish- 
ed.    If  the  part  which  I  have  taken  shall 


DEDICATION. 


serve  the  interest  of  the  family,  and  re- 
ceive the  approbation  of  good  men,  I  shall 
have  my  recompense.  The  errors  into 
which  1  have  fallen  are  not,  I  hope,  very 
important,  and  they  will  be  easily  ac- 
counted for  by  those  who  know  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  this  undertaking 
has  been  performed.  Generous  minds 
will  receive  the  posthumous  works  of 
Burns  with  candour,  and  oven  partiality, 
as  the  remains  of  an  unfortunate  man  of 
genius,  published  for  the  benefit  of  his 
family — as  the  stay  of  the  widow  and  the 
hope  of  the  fatherless. 

To  secure  the  suffrages  of  such  minds, 
all  topics  are  omitted  in  the  writings,  and 
avoided  in  the  life  of  Burns,  that  have  a 
tendency  to  awaken  the  animosity  of  party. 
In  perusing  the  following  volumes  no  of- 
fence will  be  received,  except  by  those  to 
whom  even  the  natural  erect  aspect  of 
genius  is  offensive  ;  characters  that  will 
scarcely  he  found  among  those  who  are 
educated  to  the  profession  of  arms.  Such 
men  do  not  court  situations  of  danger,  or 
tread  in  the  paths  of  glory.  They  will 
not  be  found  in  your  service,  which,  in 
our  own  days,  emulates  on  another  ele- 
ment the  superior  fame  of  the  Macedonian 


phalanx,  or  of  the  Roman  legion,  ond 
which  has,  lately  made  the  shores  of  Eu- 
rope and  of  Africa  resound  with  the  shouts 
of  victory,  from  the  Texel  to  the  Tagus, 
and  from  the  Tagus  to  the  Nile ! 

The  works  of  Burns  will  he  received 
favourably  by  one  who  stands  in  the  fore- 
most rank  of  this  noble  service,  and  who 
deserves  his  station.  On  the  land  or  on 
the  sea,  I  know  no  man  more  capable  of 
judging  of  the  character  or  of  the  writ- 
ings of  this  original  genius.  Homer,  and 
Shakspcare,  and  Ossian,  cannot  always 
occupy  your  leisure.  These  volumes 
may  sometimes  engage  your  attention, 
while  the  steady  breezes  of  the  tropic 
swell  your  sails,  and  in  another  quarter 
of  the  earth  charm  you  with  the  strains 
of  nature,  or  awake  in  your  memory  the 
scenes  of  your  early  days.  Suffer  me  to 
hope  that  they  may  sometimes  recall  to 
your  mind  the  friend  who  addresses  you, 
and  who  bids  you — most  affectionately— 
adieu  ! 


J.  CURR*IE. 


Liverpool,  1st  May,  1800. 


©©HffflBHi 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE.  &c. 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 

ON  THE  CHARACTER  AND  CONDITION  OF  THE 
SCOTTISH    PEASANTRY. 

Effects  of  the  legal  establishment  of  parochial 
schools,  1. — Of  the  church  establishment,  3. 
— Of  the  absence  of  poor  laws,  ib. — Of  the 
Scottish  music  and  national  songs,  4. — Of 
the  laws  respecting  marriage  and  inconti- 
nence, 6. — Observations  on  the  domestic  and 
national  attachments  of  the  Scots,      Page  6 

LIFE  OF  BURNS. 

Narrative  of  his  infancy  and  youth,  by  him- 
self, 10. — Narrative  on  the  same  subject,  by 
his  brother,  and  by  Mr.  Murdoch  of  Lon- 
don, his  teacher,  16. — Other  particulars  of 
Burns  while  resident  in  Ayrshire,  27. — His- 
tory of  Burns  while  resident  in  Edinburgh, 
including  Letters  to  the  Editor  from  Mr. 
Stewart  and  Dr.  Adair,  35. — History  of 
Burns  while  on  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  in 
Dumfries-shire  51. — History  of  Burns  while 
resident  at  Dumfries  54. — His  last  Illness, 
Death  and  Character,  with  general  Reflec- 
tions, ....  58 
Memoir  respecting  Burns,  by  a  Lady,  67 
Criticism  on  the  Writings  of  Burns,  includ- 
ing observations  on  poetry  in  the  Scottish 
dialect,  and  some  remarks  on  Scottish  lit- 
erature,    ....  70 

GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 

LETTERS. 

Wo.  Page. 

1.  To  Mr.  John  Murdoch,  Burns's  form- 

er teacher ;  giving  an  account  of  his 
present  studies,  and  temper  of  mind,      91 

2.  Extracts  from  MSS.     Observations  on 

various  subjects,  .  92 

N2 


No  Page. 

3.  To  Mr.  Aiken.  Written  under  distress 

of  mind, 

4.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Thanks  for  her  no- 

tice.     Praise   of  her   ancestor,  Sir 
William  Wallace, 

5.  To  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair.  Enclosing 

a  poem  on  Miss  A ,    . 

6.  Proclamation    in   the  Name  of  the 

Muses,     .... 

7.  Dr.  Black! ock  to  the  Rev.  G.  Lowrie. 

Encouraging  the  bard  to  visit  Edin- 
burgh and  print  a  new  edition  of  liis 
poems  there, 

8.  From  the  R.ev.  Mr.  Lowrie.    Advice 

to  the  Bard  how  to  conduct  himself 
.     in  Edinburgh, 

9.  To  Mr.  Chalmers.      Praise  of  Miss 

Burnet  of  Monboddo, 

10.  To  the  Earl  of  Eglinton.     Thanks  for 

his  patronage, 

11.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Account  of  his  sit- 

uation in  Edinburgh, 

12.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Grateful  acknowledg- 

ments of  Dr.  M.'s  notice  of  him  in 
his  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop, 

13.  From  Dr.  Moore.     In  answer  to  the 

foregoing,  and  enclosing  a  sonnet  on 
the  Bard  by  Miss  Williams, 

14.  To  the  Rev.  G.  Lowrie.    Thanks  for 

advice — reflections  on  his  situation — > 

compliments  paid  to  Miss  L ,  by 

Mr.  Mackenzie,    . 

15.  To  Dr.  Moore, 

16.  From  Dr.  Moore.     Sends  the  Bard  a 

present  of  his  "  View  of  Society  and 
Manners,"  &c. 

17.  To  the  Earl  of  Glcncairn.     Grateful 

acknowledgments  of  kindness, 

18.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan.    In  reply  to  a 

letter  of  advice,   . 

19.  Extract    concerning   the    monument 

erected  for  Fergusson  by  our  Poet, 

20.  To .  Accompanying  the  foregoing,  104 

21.  Extract  from .  Good  advice,  105 

22.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Respecting  his  pros- 

pects on  leaving  Edinburgh,         .      106 


95 


96 
ib. 
97 


ib. 


98 
ib. 
99 
ib. 


100 


ib. 


101 
102 


ib. 
103 

ib. 
104 


VI 

No 
23. 
24. 
25. 

2G. 


CONTENTS. 


27. 
28. 
29. 

30. 
31. 

32. 
33. 

34. 
35. 

36. 
37. 
38. 

39. 

40. 

41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 

45. 

4G. 
47. 

48. 
49. 


Page. 

To  the  same.    On  the  same  subject,      106 

To  Dr.  Moore.     On  the  same  subject,  107 

Extract  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reply  to 
Criticisms,  .  .  .        ib. 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Blair.  Written  on 
leaving  Edinburgh.  Thanks  lor  his 
kindness,  .  .  .         ib. 

From  Dr.  Blair.  In  reply  to  the  pre- 
ceding,    ....      108 

From  Dr.  Moore.  Criticism  and  good 
advice,     ....       109 

To  Mr.  Walker,  at  Blair  of  Athole. 
Enclosing  the  Humble  Petition  of 
Bruar  water  to  the  Duke  of  Athole,  110 

To  Mr.  G.  Burns.  Account  of  his 
Tour  through  the  Highlands,       .  ib. 

From  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre. 
Enclosing  Latin  Inscriptions  with 
Translations,  and  the  Tale  of  Ome- 
ron  Cameron,       .  .  .111 

Mr.  liamsay  to  the  Rev.  W.  Young. 
Introducing  our  Poet,       .  .       113 

Mr.  Ramsay  to  Dr.  Blacklock.  Anec- 
dotes of  Scottish  Songs  for  our 
Poet,         .  ib. 

From  Mr.  John  Murdoch  in  London. 
In  answer  to  No.  I.  .  .114 

From   Mr. ,    Gordon    Castle. 

Acknowledging  a  song  sent  to  Lady 
Charlotte  Gordon,  .  •         ib. 

From  the  Rev.  J.  Skinner.  Some  Ac- 
count of  Scottish  Poems, .  .       115 

From  Mrs.  Rose.  Enclosing  Gaelic 
Songs,  with  the  music,     .  .       116 

To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.  Requests 
liis  assistance  in  getting  into  the  Ex- 
cise, ....       117 

To ,  Dalrymple,Esq.  Congratula- 
tion on  his  becoming  a  poet.  Praise 
of  Lord  Glencairn,  .  .         ib. 

To  Sir  John  Whitefoord.  Thanks  for 
friendsliip.  Reflections  on  the  po- 
etical character,  .  .  .118 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Written  on  recov- 
ery from  sickness,  .  .         ib. 

Extract  to  the  Same.  Defence  of  him- 
self, .  .  .  .119 

To  the  Same — who  had  heard  that  he 
had  ridiculed  her,  .  .         ib. 

To  Mr.  Cleghorn.  Mentioning  his 
having  composed  the  first  stanza  of 
the  Chevalier's  Lament,  .  .        ib. 

From  Mr.  Cleghorn.  In  reply  to  the 
above.  The  Chevalier's  Lament  hi 
full,  in  a  note, 


To  Mrs.  Dunlop. 
of  his  prospects, 
From  the  Rev.  .1 


Giving  an  account 


Lb. 

120 


Skinner.  Enclos- 
ing two  songs,  oik'  by  himself,  the 
other  by  a  Buchan  ploughman:  the 
songs  printed  at  large, 

To  Professor  D.  Stuart.  Thanks  for 
his  friendship,    . 

Extract  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Remarks 
on  Dryden's  Virgil,  and  Pope's 
Odyssey, 


L22 


ib. 


Reflections  on  human 


123 
ib. 
124 
125 
126 


No.  Page. 

50.  To  the  same.     General  Reflections,      122 

51.  To  the  Same,  al  Mr.  Dunlop's,  Had- 

dington.    Account  of  his  marriage, 

52.  To  Mr.  P.  Hill.     With  a  present  of 

cheese,     .... 

53.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.   With  lines  on  a  her- 

mit age, 

54.  To  the  Same.     Farther  account  of  his 

marriage, 

55.  To  the  Same. 

life, 

56.  To  11.  Graham,  Esq.  of  Fintry.    A  pe- 

tition  in  verse  for  a  situation  in  the 
Excise, 

57.  To  Mr.  P.  Hill.     Criticism  on  a  poem, 

entitled,  'An  address  to  Loch-Lo- 
mond,'    .... 

58.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  at  Moreham  .Mains,   129 

59.  To****.    Defence  of  the  Family  of 

the  Stuarts.     Baseness  of  insulting 
fallen  greatness,     . 

60.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     With  the  soldier's 

song — "  Go  fetch   to  me  a  pint   of 
wine," 

61.  To  Miss  DaVies,  a  young  Lady,  who 

had  heard  he  had  been  making  a  bal- 
lad on  her,  enclosing  that  ballad, 

62.  From  Mr.  G.  Burns.    Reflections  sug- 

gested by  New  Year's  Day, 

63.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  suggest- 

ed by  New  Year's  Day,   . 

64.  To  Dr.  Moore.      Account  of  his  situ- 

ation and  prospects, 

65.  To  Professor  D.  Stewart,    Enclosing 

poems  for  his  criticism,     . 

66.  To  Bishop  G  eddes.  Account  of  his  si- 

tuation  and  prospects, 

67.  From  the  Rev.  P.  Carfrae.     Request- 

ing advice  as  to  the  publishing  Mr. 
Mylne's  poems,    . 

68.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Reflections  after  a 

visit  to  Edinburgh, 
G9.  To  the  Rev.  P.  Carfrae.    In  answer  to 
No.  07.    .... 

70.  To  Dr.  Moore.     I'm  losing  ,i  poem, 

71.  To   Mr.   Hill.      Apostrophe    to  Fru- 

gality, 

72.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     With  a  sketch  of 

an  epistle  in  verse  to  the  Right  Hon. 
('..I.  Fox, 

73.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.    With  the  flrsj 

draught  of  the  poem  on  a  wounded 
Half,         .... 

74.  From  Dr.  Gregory.     Criticism  of  the 

poem  on  a  wounded  Han-. 

75.  To  Mr.  .M-Aul.y  of  Dumbarton.  Ac- 

count of  his  situation, 

76.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.    Reflections  on  Re- 

ligion,     .... 

77.  From  Dr.  Moore.     Good  advice, 

78.  From   Miss   .1.    Little.     A    poetess    in 

humble   life,  with  a  poem  in  praise 
of  our  Haul, 

79.  From  Mr.  ******.  Some  account  of 

Fergusson,  .  .  .       143 

80.  To  Mr.  ******.    In  answer,  .      144 


127 


128 


ib. 


131 


ib. 
132 

ib. 
133 
134 

ib. 


135 

136 

ib. 
137 


138 


139 


ib. 
140 

ib. 


141 
ib. 


142 


CONTENTS. 


No.  Page. 

81.  To  Miss  Williams.  Enclosing  a  criti  - 
cism  on  a  poem  of  hers,  . 

32.  From  Miss  W.  In  reply  to  the  fore- 
going,. 

83.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Praise  of  Zeluco, 

84.  From  Dr.  Blacklock.     An  epistle  in 

verse,   .... 

85.  To  Dr.  Blacklock.    Poetical  reply  to 

the  above, 

86.  To    11.    Graham,  Esq.     Enclosing 

some  electioneering  ballads,     . 

87.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Serious  and  inter- 

esting reflections, 
8S.  To  Sir  John  Sinclair.    Account  of  a 
book  society  among  the  farmers  in 
Niths'dale, 

89.  To  Charles  Sharpe,  Esq.  of  Hoddam. 

Under  a  fictitious  signature,  enclos- 
ing a  ballad,     . 

90.  To  Mr.  G.  Burns.     Willi  a  prologue, 

spoken  on  the  Dumfries  Theatre, 

91.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Some  account  of 

Falconer,    author    of    the    Ship- 
wreck, 

92.  From  Mr.  Cunningham.    Inquiries 

after  "our  Bard, 

93.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.  In  reply  to  the 

above, 

94.  To  Mr.  Hill.     Orders  for  books, 

95.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Remarks  on  the 

Lounger,  and  on  the  writings  of 
Mr.  Mackenzie, 
9G.  From  Mr.  Cunningham.   Account  of 
the  death  of  Miss  Burnet  of  Mon- 
boddo,    .... 

97.  To  Dr.  Moore.  Thanks  for  a  present 

of  Zeluco, 

98.  To    Mrs.  Dunlop.      Written  under 

wounded  pride, 

99.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.     Aspirations 

after  independence, 

100.  From  Dr.  Blacklock.      Poetical  let- 

ter of  friendship,  .  . 

101.  Extract     from    Mr.    Cunningham. 

Suggesting  subjects  for  our  Poet's 
muse,  .... 

102.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Congratulations 

on  the  birth  of  her  grandson, 

103.  To    Mr.    Cunningham.      With    an 

elegy   on  Miss  Burnet,  of  Mon- 
boddo, 

104.  To  Mr.  Hill.      Indignant  apostro- 

phe to  Poverty, 

105.  From  A.  F.  Tytler,  Esq.     Criticism 

on  Tarn  o'Shanter, 

106.  To    A.    F.  Tytler,  Esq.     In  reply 

to  the  above, 

107.  To    Mrs.  Dunlop.      Enclosing    his 

elegy  on  Miss  Burnet, 

108.  To  Lady  W.  M.  Constable.,  Ac- 

knowledging a  present  of  a  snuff 
box,     .  . 

109.  To  Mrs.  Graham  of  Fintry.    Enclos- 

ing '  Queen  Mary's  Lament,' 

110.  From  the  Rev.  G.  Baird.     Request- 

ing  assistance   in   publishing   the 
poems  of  Michael  Bruce,  .         ib. 


144 

145 
ib. 

14G 
ib. 
ib. 

147 


148 


149 
150 


ib. 

152 

ib. 
153 


154 


155 

156 

ib. 

157 


ib. 


158 
ib. 


159 
ib. 

160 
ib. 


161 


ib. 


162 


No.  Page. 

11.  To  the  Rev.  G.  Baird.    In  reply  to 

I  lie  above, 

12.  To  Dr.  Moore.    Enclosing  Tarn  o' 

Shanter,  &c.     .  . 

13.  From  Dr.  Moore.     With  Remarks 

on  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  &c. 

14.  To  the  Rev.  A.  Alison.     Acknow- 

ledging his  present  of  the  '  i 

on  the  Principles  of  Taste,'  with 

remarks  on  the  book,  . 

15.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.     With  a  Ja- 

cobite song,  &c, 

16.  To.  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Comparison  be- 

tween female  attractions  in  high 
and  humble  life, 

17.  To  Mr. .   Reilections  on  his  own 

indolence, 

18.  To  Mr.    Cunningham.     Requesting 

his  interest  for  an  oppressed  friend, 

19.  From  the  Earl  of  Buchan.    Inviting 

over  our  bard  to  the  Coronation  of 
the  Bust  of  Thomson  on  Ednam 
Hill,     .  . 

20.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan.  In  reply, 

21.  From  the  Earl  of  Buchan.     Propos- 

ing a  subject  for  our  poet's  muse, 

22.  To  Lady  E.  Cunningham.    Enclos- 

ing '  The  Lament  for  James,  Earl 
of  Glencairn,' 

23.  To  Mr.  Ainslie.     State  of  his  mind 

after  inebriation, 

24.  From  Sir  John  Whitefoord.  Thanks 

for  '  The  Lament  for  James,  Earl 
of  Glencairn,' 

25.  From  A.  F.  Tytler,  Esq.     Criticism 

on  the  Whistle  and  the  Lament, 

26.  To  Miss  Davies.     Apology  for  ne- 

glecting her  commands — moral  re- 
flections, 

27.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Enclosing  '  The 

Song  of  Death,' 

28.  To  Mrs.   Dunlop.     Acknowledging 

the  present  of  a  cup, 

29.  To  Mr.  William  Smellie.    Introduc- 

ing Mrs.  Riddel, 

30.  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol.    Ironical  thanks 

for  advice, 

31.  To  Mr.  Cunningham.     Commissions 

his  arms  to  be  cut  on  a  seal — moral 
reflections, 

32.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Account  of  his 

meeting  with  Miss  L B 

and  enclosing  a  song  on  her, 

33.  To  Mr.  Cunningham;    Wild  apos- 

tropho  to  a  Spirit! 

34.  To  Airs.  Dunlop.     Account  of  his 

family, 

35.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.     Letter  of  condo- 

lence under  affliction, 

36.  To  Mrs.   Dunlop.      With   a  poem, 

entitled  '  The  Rights  of  Woman,' 

37.  To  Miss  B of  York.    Letter  of 

friendship, 

38.  To  Miss  C .  Character  and  tem- 

perament of  a  poet, 

39.  To    John  M'Murdo,  Esq.     Repay- 

ing money,        .     .    ]&l 


163 


ib. 
164 


165 
166 


ib. 
167 

ib. 


168 
ib. 

169 


170 
ib. 


171 
172 
173 


ib. 


174 


ib. 


175 
176 
178 
179 

ib. 
18.0 

ib. 


VU1 

No. 
140. 


CONTENTS. 


141. 

142. 

143. 
144. 

145. 
146. 

147. 

148. 
149. 

150. 

151. 

152. 


153. 
154. 

155. 


156. 
157. 

158. 
159. 


To  Mrs.  R .     Advising  her  what 

play  to  bespeak  at  the  Dumfries 
Theatre,  .  .  .      1S1 

To  a  Lady,  in  favour  of  a  Player's 
Benefit,  .  .  .      182 

Extract  to  Mr. .  On  his  pros- 
pects in  the  Excise.        .  .         ib. 

To  Mrs.  R ,  .  .         ib. 

To  the  Same.  Describing  liis  melan- 
choly feelings,    .  .  .      183 

To  the  Same.    Lending  Werter,  ib. 

To  the  same.  On  a  return  of  inter- 
rupted friendship,  .  .         ib. 

To  the  Same.  On  a  temporary 
estrangement,    .  .  .         ib. 

To  John  Syme,  Esq.  Reflections  on 
the  happiness  of  Air.  O ,       .       1S4 

To  Miss  .  Requesting  the  re- 
turn of  MSS.  lent  to  a  deceased 
friend,  .  .  .         ib. 

To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Melancholy 
reflections — cheering  prospects  of 
a  happier  world,  .  .      185 

To  Mrs.  R .     Supposed  to  bo 

written  from  '  The  dead  to  the  liv- 
ing,'    .  .  .  .186 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Reflections  on 
the  situation  of  his  family  if  ho 
should  die — praise  of  the  poem  en- 
titled '  The  Task,'  .  .      187 

To    the    Same,  in  London,  .         ib. 

To  Mrs.  R .     Thanks  for  the 

Travels  of  Anacharsist    .  .       188 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Account  of  the 
Death  of  his  Daughter,  and  of  his 
own  ill  health,    .  .  .      189 

To  Mrs.  R .    Apology  for  not 

going  to  the  birth-night  assembly,      ib. 

To  Mr.  Cunningham.  Account  of 
his  illness  and  of  his  poverty — an- 
ticipation of  his  death,   .  .         ib. 

To  Mrs.  Bums.  Sea-bathing  af- 
fords little  relief,  .  .190 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop.    Last  farewell,  ib. 


CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN    MR.  THOMSON 
AND    MR.    BURNS. 

1.  Mr.  Thomson,  to  Mr.  Burns.    De- 

siring the  bard  to  furnish  verses 
for  some  of  the  Scottish  airs,  and  to 
revise  former  songs,  .  .191 

2.  Mr.  B.  to.  Mr.  T.     Promising  as- 

sistance, ....      192 

3.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.      Sending  some 

tunes,       .  .  .  .193 

4.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  'The  Lea 

Rig,'  and  '  Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies 
my  Mary,'  .  .  .        ib. 

5.  Mr.  B.  To  Mr.  T.    With  'My  wife's  a 

winsomo  weo  thing,'  and  *  O  saw 

ye  bonnie  Leslie,'  .  .       195 


No.  pAGE, 

G.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With  'Highland 
Mary,'     .  .  .  . 

7.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.   Thanks  and  critical 

observations, 

8.  Mr.   B.  to   Mr.   'J'.      With  an  addi- 

tional  stanza  to  '  The  Lea  R 

9.  Mr.  15.  to  Mr.  T.     With  '  AuldRob 

Morris,'  and  '  Duncan  Gray, 

10.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.      \\  ith  '  < >  l'oortith 

Cauld,'  kc.  and  "Galla  Water,' 

11.  Mr.  T.    toMr.JB.  Desiring  anecdotes 

on  the  origin  of  particular  songs. 
Tytler  of  VVoodhousclce— Pleyle— 
sends  P.  Pindar's  'Lord  Gregory.' 
— Postscript  from  the  Honourable 
A.  Erskine, 

12.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     Has  Mr.  Ty tier's 

anecdotes,  and  means  to  give  his 
own — Sends  his  own '  LordGregory,  198 

13.  Mr.    B.    to    Mr.    T.      With    'Mary 

Morrison,' 

14.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  '  Wanderino- 

Willie,'    .  . 

15.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With  '  Open  the 

door  to  me,  oh !' 

16.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.      With  '  Jessy,' 

17.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  With  a  list  of  songs, 

and  '  Wandering  Willie'  altered, 

18.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    '  When  wild  war's 

deadly  blast  was  blawn,'  and  '  Mo<r 
o'  the  Mill,' 

19.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Voice  of  Coila— Cri- 

ticism— Origin  of  '  The  Lass  o' 
Patie's  Mill,' 

20.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     . 

21.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T,    Simplicity  requisite 

in  a  song— One  poet  should  not 
mangle  the  works  of  another, 

22.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     'Farewell  thou 

Btreamthal  u  indingflows.' — Wishes 
that  the  national  music  may  preserve 
its  native  features, 

23.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Thanks  and  obser- 

vations,   . 

24.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  '  Blithe  hae  I 

been  on  yon  hill,' 

25.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  'O  Logan 

sweetly  didst  thou  glide,'  '  O  gin 
my  love  were  yon  red  rose,'  &c. 

26.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.    Enclosing  a  note- 

Thanks, 

27.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  With  '  There  was  a 

lass  and  she  was  fair,'     . 

28.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    Hurt  at  the  idea  of 

pecuniary  recompense — Remarks 
on  songs, 

29.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Musical  expression 

30.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  For  Mr.  Clarke, 

31.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  '  Phillis  the 

Fair,'       . 

32.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Mr.  Allan— draw- 

ing from  '  John  Anderson  my  Jo,' 

33.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With  'Had  I  a 

cave,'  &c. — Some  airs  common  to 
Scotland  and  Ireland,      .  .        ib. 


195 
ib 
196 
197 
ib. 


ib. 


199 

ib. 

200 
ib. 

ib. 


ib. 


201 
202 


ib. 


203 

204 

ib. 


205 

ib. 

206 


ib. 
207 

lb. 

ib. 
208 


CONTENTS. 


No.  Page. 

34.  Mr.  B.  To.  Mr.  T.    With  '  By  Allan 

stream  I  chanced  to  rove,' 

35.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  '  Whistle  and 

I'll  come  to  you  my  lad,'  and  '  Awa 
wi'  your  belles  and  your  beauties,' 

36.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With  '  Come  let 

me  take  thee  to  my  breast,' 

37.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     '  Dainty  Davie,' 

38.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.    Delighted  with  the 

productions  of  Burns's  muse, 

39.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With '  Bruce  to  his 

troops  at  Bannockburn,' 

40.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With  '  Behold  the 

hour,  the  boat  arrive,' 

41.  Mr.  T.  to   Mr.  B.     Observations  on 

'  Bruce  to  his  troops,' 

42.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     Remarks  on  songs 

in  Mr.  T's.  list — His  own  method  of 
forming  a  song — '  Thou  hast  left  me 
ever,  Jamie" — '  Whore  are  the  joys  I 
hae  met  in  the  morning,' '  Auld  lang 
syne',       .... 

43.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  a  variation  of 

'  Bannockburn,'    . 

44.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.    Thanks  and  obser- 

vations,   .... 

45.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    On '  Bannockburn' 

— sends  '  Fair  Jenny,' 
4G.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.      With  'Deluded 
swain,  the   pleasure' — Remarks, 

47.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     Witii '  Thine  am  I, 

my  faithful   fair,' — '  O  condescend 
dear  charming  maid' — '  The  Night- 
ingale'— '  Laura' — (the  three  last  by 
.G.  Turnbull) 

48.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.    Apprehensions — 

Thanks,  .... 

49.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With  '  Husband, 

husband,  cease  your  strife  1'  and 
'  Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ?' 

50.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.      Melancholy  com- 

parison between  Burns  and  Carlini 

Mr.  Allan  has  begun  a  sketch 

from  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night, 

51.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    Praise  of  Mr.  Al- 

lan— '  Banks  of  Cree,' 

52.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     Pleyel  in  France 

— 'Here,  where  the  Scottisli  muse 
immortal  lives,'  presented  to  Miss 
Graham  of  Fintry,  with  a  copy  of 
Mr.  Thomson's  Collection, 

53.  Mr.  T.   to  Mr.  B.      Does  not  expect 

to  hear  from  Pleyel  soon,  but  desires 
to  be  prepared  with  the  poetry 

54.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  '  On  the  seas 

and  far  away,' 

55.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.    Criticism, 

56.  Mr.   B.   to  Mr.  T.      With  «  Ca'  the 

yowes  to  the  knowes,' 

57.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With '  She  says  she 

lo'es  me  best  of  a',' — '  O  let  me  in,' 
&c. — Stanza  to  Dr.  Maxwell, 

58  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Advising  him  to  write 
a  Musical  Drama, 

59.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.  Has  been  ex- 
amining Scottish  collections — Rit- 
son — Difficult  to  obtain  ancient  me- 
lodies iii  their  original  state  .      222 


209 


ib. 

ib. 
210 

ib. 

ib. 

211 

ib. 


212 
214 
ib. 
215 
216 


ib. 
218 


ib. 


219 


ib. 

ib. 
220 

ib. 


ib. 
221 


No. 
60. 


Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T. 


Paoe. 
Recipe  for  pro- 


ducing a  love-song — '  Saw  ye  my 
Phely  — Remarks  and  anecdotes — 
'  How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night' 
— '  Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 
— '  The  Lover's  morning  Salute  to 
his  Mistress' — '  The  Auld  man'— 
'  Keen  blows  the  wind  o'er  Donocht- 
hcad,'  in  a  note,   . 

61.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Wishes  he  knew 

the  inspiring  fair  one — Ritson's  His- 
torical Essay  not  interesting — Allan 
— Maggie  Lawder, 

62.  Mr.  B.  to.  Mr.  T.     Has  begun  his 

Anecdotes,  &c.  '  My  Chloris  mark 
how  green  the  groves' — Love — 'It 
was  the  charming  month  of  May' — 
'  Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks'— 
History  of  the  air  '  Ye  Banks  and 
braes  o'  bonnie  Doon' — James  Mil- 
ler— Clarke — The  black  keys — In- 
stances of  the  difficulty  of  tracing 
the  origin  of  ancient  airs, 

63.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     With  three  copies 

of  the  Scottish  airs, 

64.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  '  O  Philly 

happy  be  that  day' — Starting  note 
— '  Contented  wi'  little  and  cantie 
wi'  mair' — '  Canst  thou  leave  me 
thus,  my  Katy  ?' — (The  P».eply, '  Stay 
my  Willie,  yet  believe  me,'  in  a  note) 
— Stock  and  horn, 

65.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Praise— Desires 

more  songs  of  the  humorous  cast — 
Means  to  have  a  picture  from  '  The 
Soldier's  return,' 

66.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    With  'My  Nan- 

nie's awa,' 

67.  Mr.  B.  to   Mr.    T.     With   '  For  a' 

that  an'  a'  that'  and  '  Sweet  fa's 
the  eve  on  Craigie-burn,' 

68.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Thanks, 

69.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.    '  O  lassie,  art  thou 

sleeping  yet  ?'  and  the  Answer, 

70.  Mr.   B.    to    Mr.    T.      Dispraise    of 

Ecclefechan, 

71.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.    Thanks, 

72.  Mr.  B.  to   Mr.  T.    'Address  to  the 

Woodlark' — '  On  Chloris'  being  ill' 
— f  Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle,' 
&c. — '  'Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  e'e,' 
&c,  .... 

73.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     With  Allan's  de- 

sign from  '  The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,'     .... 

74.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr,T.     With  '  How  cruel 

are  the  parents,'  and  '  Mark  yonder 
pomp  of  costly  fashion,'    . 

75.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     Thanks  for  Al- 

lan's designs, 

76.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Compliment,      . 

77.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.      With  an  improve- 

ment in  '  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to 
you  my  lad,' — '  O  this  is  no  my  ain 
lassie,' — '  Now  spring  has  clad  the 
grove  in  green' — '  O  bonnie  was 
yon  rosy  brier' — •'  'Tis  Friendsliip's 
pledge  my  young,  fair  Friend,'     . 


ib., 


224 


225 
227 


ib. 


229 
230 


ib. 
ib. 

231 

ib. 
ib. 


ib. 


232 


ib. 

ib. 
233 


ib 


CONTENTS. 


No.  Page. 

78.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  E.     Introducing  Dr. 

Brianton,  .  .  .      234 

79.  Mr.    B.    to   Mr.   T.      'Forlorn    my 

i,  no  comfort  near,'     .  .         ib. 

80.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     k  Last  May  a  braw 

■  .er  cam  down  the  lang  glen' — 
•  Why,  why  tell  thy  lover,*  a  frag- 
ment,      .  .  .  .         ib. 

81.  Mr.T.  toMr.B.,    .  .  .235 

82.  Mr.  T.   to   Mr.   B.      After  an  awful 

l>;uise,      .  .  •  .         ib. 

83.  Mr.  B.  tu  Mr.  T.     Thanks  for  P.  Pin- 

dar, ice. — '  Hey  for  a  lass  wi!  a  to- 
cher,'        •■  .  •         ib. 

b  1.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.    Allan  has  designed 

some  plates  for  an  octavo  edition,         ib. 

85.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Afflicted  by  sick- 
ness, but  pleased  with  Mr.  Allan's 
etchings,  ....      23G 

8C.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Sympathy,  en- 
couragement,      .  .  .        ib. 

87.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     With  'Here's  a 

health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear,'  .        ib. 

83.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.  Introducing  Mr. 
I. e wars — Has  taken  a  fancy  to  re- 
view hia  songs — Hopes  to  recover,     237 


ib. 


ib. 


23S 


No.  Page. 

89.  Mr.  B.  to  Mr.  T.     Dreading  the  hor- 

rors of  a  jail,  solicits  the  advance  of 
five  pounds,  and  encloses  '  Fairest 
Maid  on  Devon  banks,'    . 

90.  Mr.  T.  to  Mr.  B.     Sympathy— Ad- 

vises a  volume  of  poetry  to  be  pub- 
lished by  subscription — -Pope  pub- 
lished the  Iliad  so, 

Letter  containing  some  particulars  of  the 
History  of  the  foregoing  Poems,  by 
Gilbert  Burns, 

Letter  to  Captain  Grose, 


APPENDIX. 


No.  1 245 

No.  H.  Including  an  extract  of  a  Poem 

addressed  to  Burns  by  Mr.  Telford,  ,  248 

No.  III.  Letter  from  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns  to 
the  Editor,  approving  of  his  Life  of  his 
Brother ;  with  observations  on  the  ef- 
fects of  refinement  of  taste  on  the  la- 
bouring classes  of  men,  .  .      252 


TO  THE  LIFE 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


Though  the  dialect  in  which  many  of 
the  happiest  effusions  of  Robert  Burns 
are  composed  be  peculiar  to  Scotland,  yet 
his  reputation  has  extended  itself  beyond 
the  limits  of  that  country,  and  his  poetry 
has  been  admired  as  the  offspring  of  origi- 
nal genius,  by  persons  of  taste  in  every 
part  of  the  sister  islands.  The  interest 
excited  by  his  early  death,  and  the  dis- 
tress of  his  infant  family,  have  been  felt  in 
a  remarkable  manner  wherever  his  writ- 
ings have  been  known  :  and  these  posthu- 
mous volumes,  which  give  to  the  world  his 
works  complete,  and  which,  it  is  hoped, 
may  raise  his  widow  and  children  from 
penury,  are  printed  and  published  in  Eng- 
land. It  seems  proper,  therefore,  to  write 
the  memoirs  of  his  life,  not  with  the  view 
of  their  being  read  by  Scotchmen  only, 
but  also  by  natives  of  England,  and  of 
other  countries  where  the  English  lan- 
guage is  spoken  or  understood. 

Robert  Burns  was,  in  reality,  what  he 
has  been  represented  to  be,  a  Scottisli  pea- 
sant. To  render  the  incidents  of  his  hum- 
ble story  generally  intelligible,  it  seems, 
therefore,  advisable  to  prefix  some  obser- 
vations on  the  character  and  situation  of 
the  order  to  which  he  belonged — a  class 
of  men  distinguished  by  many  peculiari- 
ties :  by  this  means  we  shall  form  a  more 
correct  notion  of  the  advantages  with 
which  lie  started,  and  of  the  obstacles 
which  he  surmounted.  A  few  observa- 
tions on  the  Scottish  peasantry  will  not, 
perhaps,  be  found  unworthy  of  attention 
in  other  respects ;  and  the  subject  is,  in  a 
great  measure,  new.  Scotland  has  pro- 
duced persons  of  high  distinction  in  every 
branch  of  philosophy  and  literature ;  and 
her  history,  while  a  separate  and  inde- 
pendent nation,  has  been  successfully  »v- 


plored.  But  the  present  character  of  the 
people  was  not  then  formed ;  the  nation 
then  presented  features  similar  to  those 
which  the  feudal  system  and  the  catholic 
religion  had  diffused  over  Europe,  modi- 
fied, indeed,  by  the  peculiar  nature  of  her 
territory  and  climate.  The  Reformation, 
by  which  such  important  changes  were 
produced  on  the  national  character,  was 
speedily  followed  by  the  accession  of  the 
Scottish  monarchs  to  the  English  throne ; 
and  the  period  which  elapsed  from  that 
accession  to  the  Union,  has  been  render- 
ed memorable,  chiefly,  by  those  bloody 
convulsions  in  which  both  divisions  of  the 
island  were  involved,  and  which,  in  a  con- 
siderable degree,  concealed  from  the  eye 
of  the  historian  the  domestic  history  of 
the  people,  and  the  gradual  variations  in 
their  condition  and  manners.  Since  the 
Union,  Scotland,  though  the  seat  of  two 
unsuccessful  attempts  to  restore  the 
House  of  Stuart  to  the  throne,  has  en- 
joyed a  comparative  tranquillity;  and  it 
is  since  this  period  that  the  present  cha- 
racter of  her  peasantry  has  been  in  a 
great  measure  formed,  though  the  politi- 
cal causes  affecting  it  are  to  be  traced  to 
the  previous  acts  of  her  separate  legisla- 
ture. 

A  slight  acquaintance  with  the  pea- 
santry of  Scotland  will  serve  to  convince 
an  unprejudiced  observer,  that  they  pos- 
sess a  degree  of  intelligence  not  general- 
ly found  among  the  same  class  of  men  in 
the  other  countries  of  Europe.  In  the 
very  humblest  condition  of  the  Scottish 
peasants,  every  one  can  read,  and  most 
persons  are  more  or  less  skilled  in  writ- 
ing and  arithmetic ;  and,  under  the  dis- 
guise of  their  uncouth  appearance,  and  of 
their   peculiar  manners   and   dialect,   a 


2 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


stranger  will  discover  that  they  possess  a 
curiosity,  and  have  obtained  a  degree  of 
information,  corresponding  to  these  ac- 
quirements. 

These  advantages  they  owe  to  the  le- 
gal provision  made  by  the  parliament  of 
Scotland  in  1646,  for  the  establishment  of 
a  school  in  every  parish  throughout  the 
kingdom,  for  the  express  purpose  of  edu- 
cating the  poor  :  a  law  which  may  chal- 
lenge comparison  with  any  act  of  legisla- 
tion to  be  found  in  the  records  of  history, 
whether  we  consider  the  wisdom  of  the 
ends  in  view,  the  simplicity  of  the  means 
employed,  or  the  provisions  made  to  ren- 
der these  means  effectual  to  their  pur- 
pose.- This  excellent  statute  was  repeal- 
ed on  the  accession  of  Charles  II.  in 
1660,  together  with  all  the  other  laws 
passed  during  the  commonwealth,  as  not 
being  sanctioned  by  the  royal  assent.  It 
slept  during  the  reigns  of  Charles  and 
James,  but  was  re-enacted,  precisely  in 
the  same  terms,  by  the  Scottish  parlia- 
ment after  the  revolution,  in  1696;  and 
this  is  the  last  provision  on  the  subject. 
Its  effects  on  the  national  character  may 
be  considered  to  have  commenced  about 
the  period  of  the  Union;  and  doubtless  it 
co-operated  with  the  peace  and  security 
arising  from  that  happy  event,  in  produ- 
cing the  extraordinary  change  in  favour 
of  industry  and  good  morals,  which  the 
character  of  the  common  people  of  Scot- 
land has  since  undergone.* 

The  church-establishment  of  Scotland 
happily  coincides  with  the  institution  just 
mentioned,  which  may  be  called  its  school 
establishment.  The  clergyman  being  ev- 
ery where  resident  in  his  particular  par- 
ish, becomes  the  natural  patron  and  super- 
intendent of  the  parish  school,  and  is  en- 
abled in  various  ways  to  promote  the  com- 
fort of  the  teacher,  and  the  proficiency  of 
the  scholars.  The  teacher  himself  is 
often  a  candidate  for  holy  orders,  who, 
during  the  long  course  of  study  and  pro- 
bation required  in  the  Scottish  church, 
renders  the  time  which  can  be  spared  fr<  im 
his  professional  studies,  useful  toothers 
as  well  as  to  himself,  by  assuming  the  re- 
spectable character  of  a  schoolmaster.  It 
is  common  for  the  established  schools, 
even  in  the  country  parishes  of  Scotland, 
to  enjoy  the  means  of  classical  instruc- 
tion; and  many  of  the  farmers,  and  some 
even  of  the  cottagers,  submit  to  much 

*  Seo  Appendix,  No.  I.  Note  A. 


privation,  that  they  may  obtain,  for  one 
of  their  sons  at  least,  the  precarious  ad- 
vantage of  a  learned  education.  The  dif- 
ficulty to  be  surmounted  arises,  indeed, 
not  l'rom  the  expense  of  instructing  their 
children,  but  from  the  charge  of  support- 
ing them.  In  the  country  parish  schools, 
the  English  language,  writing,  and  ac- 
counts, are  generally  taught  at  the  rate 
of  six  shillings,  and  Latin  at  the  rate  of 
ten  or  twelve  shillings  per  annum.  In 
the  towns  the  prices  are  somewhat  higher. 

It  would  be  improper  in  this  place  to 
inquire  minutely  into  the  degree  of  in- 
struction received  at  these  seminaries,  or 
to  attempt  any  precise  estimate  of  its  ef- 
fects, either  on  the  individuals  who  are 
the  subjects  of  this  instruction,  or  on  the 
community  to  which  they  belong.  That 
it  is  on  the  whole  favourable  to  industry 
and  morals,  though  doubtless  with  some 
individual  exceptions,  seems  to  be  proved 
by  the  most  striking  and  decisive  appear- 
ance ;  and  it  is  equally  clear,  that  it  is 
the  cause  of  that  spirit  of  emigration  and 
of  adventure  so  prevalent  among  the 
Scotch.  Knowledge  has,  by  Lord  Veru- 
lam,  been  denominated  power ;  by  others 
it  has  with  less  propriety  been  denomina- 
ted virtue  or  happiness:  we  may  with 
confidence  consider  it  as  motion.  A  hu- 
man being,  in  proportion  as  he  is  inform- 
ed, has  his  wishes  enlarged,  as  well  as 
the  means  of  gratifying  those  wishes. 
He  may  be  considered  as  taking  within 
the  sphere  of  his  vision  a  large  portion  of 
the  globe  on  which  we  tread,  and  disco- 
vering advantage  at  a  greater  distance 
o«  its  surface.  His  desires  or  ambition, 
once  excited,  are  stimulated  by  his  ima- 
gination ;  and  distant  and  uncertain  ob- 
jects, giving  freer  scope  to  the  operation 
of  this  faculty,  often  acquire,  in  the  mind 
of  the  youthful  adventurer,  an  attraction 
from  their  very  distance  and  uncertainty. 
If,  therefore,  a  greater  degree  of  instruc- 
tion he  given  to  the  peasantry  of  a  coun- 
try comparatively  poor,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  other  countries  rich  in  natural 
and  acquired  advantages  ;  and  if  the  bar- 
riers be  removed  that  kept  them  separate, 
emigration  from  the  former  to  the  latter 
will  take  place  to  a  certain  extent,  by 
laws  nearly  as  uniform  as  those  by  which 
heat  diffuses  itself  among  surrounding 
bodies,  or  water  funis  its  level  when  left 
to  its  natural  course.  By  the  articles  of 
the  Union,  the  barrier  was  broken  down 
which  divided  the  two  British  nations, 
and  knowledge  and  poverty  poured  the 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


's 


adventurous  natives  of  the  north  over  the 
fertile  plains  of  England;  and  more  espe- 
cially, over  the  colonies  which  she  had 
settled  in  the  cast  and  west.  The  stream 
of  population  continues  to  flow  from  the 
north  to  the  south  ;  for  the  causes  that 
originally  impelled  it  continue  to  operate; 
and  the  richer  country  is  constantly  in- 
vigorated by  the  accession  of  an  informed 
and  hardy  race  of  men,  educated  in  po- 
verty, and  prepared  for  hardship  and  dan- 
ger ;  patient  of  labour,  and  prodigal  of 
fife.* 

The  preachers  of  the  Reformation  in 
Scotland  were  disciples  of  Calvin,  and 
brought  with  them  the  temper  as  well  as 
the  tenets  of  that  celebrated  heresiarch. 
The  presbyterian  form  of  worship  and  of 
church  government  was  endeared  to  the 
people,  from  its  being  established  by 
themselves.  It  was  endeared  to  them, 
also,  by  the  struggle  it  had  to  maintain 
wit  h  the  Catholic  and  the  Protestant  epis- 
copal churches  ;  over  both  of  which,  after 
a  hundred  years  of  fierce  and  sometimes 
bloody  contention,  it  finally  triumphed, 
receiving  the  countenance  of  government, 
and  the  sanction  of  law.  During  this 
long  period  of  contention  and  of  suffering, 
the  temper  of  the  people  became  more 
and  more  obstinate  and  bigoted  :  and  the 
nation  received  that  deep  tinge  of  fanati- 
cism which  coloured  their  public  transac- 
tions, as  well  as  their  private  virtues, 
and  of  which  evident  traces  may  he  found 
in  our  own  times.  When  the  public 
schools  were  established,  the  instruction 
communicated  in  them  partook  of  the  re- 
ligious character  of  the  people.  The 
Catechism  of  the  Westminster  Divines 
was  the  universal  school-book,  and  was 
put  into  the  hands  of  the  yonng  peasant 
as  soon  as  he  had  acquired  a  knowledge 
of  his  alphabet  ;  and  his  first  exercise  in 
the  art  of  reading  introduced  him  to  the 
most  mysterious  doctrines  of  the  Chris- 
tian faith.  This  practice  is  continued  in 
our  own  times.  After  the  Assembly's 
Catechism,  the  Proverbs  of  Solomon,  and 
the  New  and  Old  Testament,  follow  in 
regular  succession ;  and  the  scholar  de- 
parts, gifted  with  the  knowledge  of  the 
sacred  writings,  and  receiving  their  doc- 
trines according  to  the  interpretation  of 
the  Westminster  Confession  of  Faith. 
Thus,  with  the  instruction  of  infancy  in 
the  schools  of  Scotland  are  blended  the 
dogmas  of  the  national  church  ;  and  hence 

*  See  Appendix,  No.  I,  Note  B. 
O 


the  first  and  most  constant  exercise  of 
ingenuity  among  the  peasantry  of  Scot- 
Laud  is  displayed  in  religious  disputation. 
With  a  strong  attachment  to  the  na- 
tional creed,  is  conjoined  a  bigoted  pre- 
ference of  certain  forms  of  worship  ;  the 
source  of  which  could  be  often  altogether 
obscure,  if  we  did  not  recollect  that  the 
ceremonies  of  the  Scottisli  Church  were 
framed  in  direct  opposition,  in  every 
point,  to  those  of  the  church  of  Rome. 

The  eccentricities  of  conduct,  and  sin- 
gularities of  opinion  and  manners,  which 
characterized  the  English  sectaries  in  the 
last  century,  afforded  a  subject  for  the 
comic  muse  of  Butler,  whose  pictures  lose 
their  interest,  since  their  archetypes  are 
lost.  Some  of  the  peculiarities  common 
among  the  more  rigid  disciples  of  Cal- 
vinism in  Scotland,  in  the  present  times, 
have  given  scope  to  the  ridicule  of  Burns, 
whose  humour  is  equal  to  Butler's,  and 
whose  drawings  from  living  manners  are 
singularly  expressive  and  exact.  Unfor- 
tunately the  correctness  of  his  taste  did 
not  always  correspond  with  the  strength 
of  his  genius  ;  and  hence  some  of  the 
most  exquisite  of  his  comic  productions 
are  rendered  unfit  for  the  light.* 

The  information  and  the  religious  edu- 
cation of  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  pro- 
mote sedateness  of  conduct,  and  habits 
of  thought  and  reflection. — These  good 
qualities  are  not  counteracted,  by  the  es- 
tablishment of  poor  laws,  which  while 
they  reflect  credit  on  the  benevolence, 
detract  from  the  wisdom  of  the  English 
legislature.  To  make  a  legal  provision 
for  the  inevitable  distresses  of  the  poor, 
who  by  age  or  disease  are  rendered  inca- 
pable of  labour,  may  indeed  seem  an  in- 
dispensable duty  of  society  ;  and  if,  in 
the  execution  of  a  plan  for  this  purpose, 
a  distinction  could  be  introduced,  so  as 
to  exclude  from  its  benefits  those  whose 
sufferings  are  produced  by  idleness  or 
profligacy,  such  an  institution  would  per- 
haps be  as  rational  as  humane.  But  to 
lay  a  general  tax  on  property  for  the  sup- 
port of  poverty,  from  whatever  cause  pro- 
ceeding, is  a  measure  full  of  danger.  It 
must  operate  in  a  considerable  degree  as 
an  incitement  to  idleness,  and  a  discour- 
agement to  industry.  It  takes  away  from 
vice  and  indolence  the  prospect  of  their 

*  I  My  Willie's  Trayer  ;  R"l>  the  Rhymer's  Wel- 
come to  his  Bastard  Child  ;  Epistle  to  J.  Gowdie  ;  the 
Holy  Tulzie,  &bc. 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


most  dreaded  consequences,  and  from 
virtue  and  industry  their  peculiar  sanc- 
tions. In  many  cases  it  must  render  the 
rise  in  the  price  oflabour,  not  a  blessing, 
but  a  curse  to  the  labourer  ;  who,  if  1 1nn 
be  an  excess  in  what  he  earns  beyond  ins 
immediate  necessities,  may  be  ex] 
to  devote  this  excess  to  his  present  grati- 
fication ;  trusting  to  the  provision  made 
by  law  for  Ins  own  and  bis  family's  sup- 
port, should  disease  suspend,  or  death 
terminate  bis  Labours.  Happily,  in  Scot- 
land, the  same1  legislature  which  estab- 
lished a  system  of  instruction  for  the 
poor,  resisted  the  introduction  of  a  legal 
provision  for  the  support,  of  poverty;  the 
establishment  of  the  first,  and  the  rejec- 
tion of  ih"  last,  were  equally  favourable 
to  industry  and  good  morals  ;  and  hence 
it  will  not  appear  surprising,  if  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry  have  a  more  than  usual 
share  of  prudence  and  reflection,  if  they 
approach  nearer  than  persons  of  their 
order  usually  do,  to  the  definition  of  a 
man,  that  of  "  a  being  that  looks  before 
and  after."  These  observations  must  in- 
deed be  taken  with  many  exceptions  :  . 
the  favourable  operation  of  the  causes 
just  mentioned  is  counteracted  by  others 
of  an  opposite  tendency  ;  and  the  subject, 
if  fully  examined,  would  lead  to  discus- 
sions of  great  extent. 

When  the  Reformation  was  establish- 
ed in  Scotland,  instrumental  music  was 
banished  from  the  churches,  as  savouring 
too  much  of  "  profane  minstrelsy."  In- 
stead of  being  regulated  by  an  instru- 
ment, the  voices  of  the  congregation  are 
led  and  directed  by  a  person  under  the 
name  of  a  precentor  ;  and  the  people  are 
all  expected  to  join  in  the  tune  which  he 
chooses  for  the  psalm  which  is  to  be  sung. 
Church-music  is  therefore  a  part  of  the 
education  of  the  peasantry  of  Scotland, 
in  which  they  are  usually  instructed  in 
the  long  winter  nights  by  the  parish 
schoolmaster,  who  is  generally  the  pre- 
centor, or  by  itinerant  teachers  more 
celebrated  fin*  their  powers  of  voice. 
This  branch  of  education  had,  in  the  last 
reignfallen  into  some  neglect,  but  was 
revived  about  thirty  or  fortj  years  ago, 
when  the  music  itself  was  reformed  and 
improved.  The  Scottish  system  of  psal- 
mody is,  however,  radically  bad.  Desti- 
tute of  I  a -f e  or  harmony,  it  form-  a  si  rik- 
ing  contrast,  with  the  delicacy  and  pathos 

of  the  profane  airs.      I  lur  port,  it  will  be 

found, was taughl  church-music,  in  «  hich. 
however,  he  made  little  proficiency. 


That  dancing  should  also  be  very  gene- 
rally a  part  of  the  education  of  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry,  will  surprise  those  who 
have  only  seen  'his  description  of  men  : 

and  still  more   those    who    reflect    on   the 

rigid  spirit  of  Calvinism  with  which  the 
nation  is  so  deeply  affected,  and  to  which 
this  recreation  is  so  strongly  abhorrent. 
The  winter  is  also  the  season  v  b 
acquire  dancing,  and  indeed  almost  all 
then-  other  instruction.  Tin  y  are  taught 
to  dance  by  persons  generally  of*  their 
own  number,  many  of  whom  work  at  dai- 
ly labour  during  the  summer  months. 
The   school   is  usually  a  ham,   and  the 

arena   for  the  pi  rfori /    is  generally  a 

clay  floor.  The  dome  is  lighted  by  can- 
dles stuck  in  one  end  of  a  cloven  stick, 
the  other  end  of  which  is  thrust  into  the 
wall.  Reels,  strathspeys,  country-dan- 
ces, and  horn-pipes,  are  here  practised. 
The  jig  so  much  in  favour  among  the 
English  peasantry,  has  no  place  among 
them.  The  attachment  of  the  people 
of  Scotland  of  every  rank,  and  particu- 
larly of  the  peasantry,  to  this  amusement, 
is  very  great.  After  the  labours  of  the 
day  are  over,  young  men  and  women 
walk  many  miles,  in  the  cold  and  dreary 
nights  of  winter,  to  these  country  dan- 
cing-schools ;  and  the  instant  that  the 
violin  sounds  a  Scottish  air,  fatigue  seems 
to  vanish,  the  toil-bent  rustic  becomes 
erect,  his  features  brighten  with  sympa- 
thy ;  every  nerve  seems  to  thrill  with 
sensation,  and  every  artery  to  vibrate 
with  life.  These  rustic  performers  are 
indeed  less  to  be  admired  for  grace,  than 
for  agility  and  animation,  and  their  accu- 
rate observance  of  time.  Their  modes 
of  dancing,  as  well  as  their  tunes,  are 
common  to  every  rank  in  Scotland,  and 
are  now7  generally  known.  In  our  own 
day  they  have  penetrated    into    England, 

and  have  established  themselves  even  in 
the  circle  of  royalty.  In  another  gene- 
ration they  will  be  naturalized  in  every 
part  of  the  island. 

The  prevalen of  this  taste,  or  rather 

passion  for  dancing,    among   a    people   sd 

deeply  tinctured  with  the  spirit  and  doc- 
trines of  Calvin,  is  one  of  those  contra- 
dictions which  the  philosophic  observer 
so  often  finds  in  national  character  and 
manners.  It  is  probably  to  be  ascribed 
to  the  Scottish  music,  which  throughout 
all  its  varieties,        o  full  of  sensibility  ; 

and  which,  in  its  livelier  strains,    awakes 

those  vivid  emotions  that  find  in  dancing 
their  natural  solace  and  relief.  , 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


This  triumph  of  the  music  of  Scotland 
over  the  spirit  of  the  established  religion, 
has  not,  however,  been  obtained  without 
long  continued  and  obstinate  struggles. 
The  numerous  sectaries  who  dissent  from 
the  establishment  on  account  of  the  re- 
laxation which  they  perceive,  or  think 
they  perceive,  in  the  church,  from  her 
original  doctrine's  and  discipline,  univer- 
sally condemn  the  practice  of  dancing, 
and  the  schools  where  it  is  taught  ;  and 
the  more  elderly  and  serious  part  of  the 
people,  of  every  persuasion,  tolerate 
rather  than  approve  these  meetings  of 
the  young  of  both  sexes,  where  dancing 
is  practised  to  their  spirit-stirring  music, 
where  care  is  dispelled,  toil  is  forgotten, 
and  prudence  itself  is  sometimes  lulled  to 
sleep. 

The  Reformation,  which  proved  fatal 
to  the  rise  of  the  other  fine  arts  in  Scot- 
land, probably  impeded,  but  could  not  ob- 
struct the  progress  of  its  music  :  a  cir- 
cumstance that  will  convince  the  impar- 
tial inquirer,  that  this  music  not  only 
existed  previously  to  that  sera,  but  had 
taken  a  firm  hold  of  the  nation ;  thus  af- 
fording a  proof  of  its  antiquity,  stronger 
than  any  produced  by  the  researches  of 
our  antiquaries. 

The  impression  which  the  Scottish 
music  has  made  on  the  people,  is  deepen- 
ed by  its  union  with  the  national  songs, 
of  which  various  collections  of  unequal 
merit  are  before  the  public.  These  songs, 
like  those  of  other  nations,  are  many  of 
them  humorous  ;  but  they  chiefly  treat  of 
love,  war,  and  drinking.  Love  is  the 
subject  of  the  greater  proportion.  With- 
out displaying  the  higher  powers  of  the 
imagination,  they  exhibit  a  perfect  know- 
ledge of  the  human  heart,  and  breathe  a 
spirit  of  affection,  and  sometimes  of  deli- 
cate and  romantic  tenderness,  not  to  be 
surpassed  in  modern  poetry,  and  which 
the  more  polished  strains  of  antiquity 
have  seldom  possessed. 

.  The  origin  of  this  amatory  character 
in  the  rustic  muse  of  Scotland,  or  of  the 
greater  number  of  these  love-songs  them- 
selves, it  would  be  difficult  to  trace ; 
they  have  accumulated  in  the  silent  lapse 
of  time,  and  it  is  now  perhaps  impossible 
to  give  an  arrangement  of  them  in  the 
order  of  their  date,  valuable  as  such  a 
record  of  taste  and  manners  would  be. 
Their  present  influence  on  the  character 
of  the  nation  is,  however,  great,  and  strik- 


ing. To  them  we  must  attribute,  in  a 
great  measure,  the  romantic  passion 
which  so  often  characterizes  the  attach- 
ments of  the  humblest  of  the  people  of 
Scotland,  to  a  degree,  that  if  we  mistake 
not,  is  seldom  found  in  the  same  rank  of 
society  in  other  countries.  The  pictures 
of  love  and  happiness  exhibited  in  their 
rural  songs,  are  early  impressed  on  the 
mind  of  the  peasant,  and  are  rendered 
more  attractive  from  the  music  with 
which  they  are  united.  They  associate 
themselves  with  his  own  youthful  emo- 
tions;  they  elevate  the  object  as  well  as 
the  nature  of  his  attachment  ;  and  give 
to  the  impressions  of  sense  the  beautiful 
colours  of  imagination.  Hence  in  the 
course  of  his  passion,  a  Scottish  peasant 
often  exerts  a  spirit  of  adventure,  of 
which  a  Spanish  cavalier  need  not  be 
ashamed.  After  the  labours  of  the  day 
are  over,  he  sets  out  for  the  habitation  of 
his  mistress,  perhaps  at  many  miles  dis- 
tance, regardless  of  the  length  or  the 
dreariness  of  the  way.  He  approaches 
her  in  secresy,  under  the  disguise  of  night. 
A  signal  at  the  door  or  window,  perhaps 
agreed  on,  and  understood  by  none  but 
her,  gives  information  of  his  arrival ;  and 
sometimes  it  is  repeated  again  and  again, 
before  the  capricious  fair  one  will  obey 
the  summons.  But  if  she  favours  his  ad- 
dresses, she  escapes  unobserved,  and  re- 
ceives the  vows  of  her  lover  under  the 
gloom  of  twilight,  or  the  deeper  shade  of 
night.  Interviews  of  this  kind  are  the  sub- 
jects of  many  of  the  Scottish  songs,  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  which  Burns  has 
imitated  or  improved.  In  the  art  which 
they  celebrate  he  was  perfectly  skilled  ; 
he  knew  and  had  practised  all  its  myste- 
ries. Intercourse  of  this  sort  is  indeed 
universal  even  in  the  humblest  condition 
of  man  in  every  region  of  the  earth.  But 
it  is  not  unnatural  to  suppose  that  it  may 
exist  in  a  greater  degree,  and  in  a  more 
romantic  form,  among  the  peasantry  of  a 
country  who  are  supposed  to  be  more 
than  commonly  instructed ;  who  find  in 
their  rural  songs  expressions  for  their 
youthful  emotions  :  and  in  whom  the  em- 
bers of  passion  are  continually  fanned  by 
the  breathings  of  a  music  full  of  tender- 
ness and  sensibility.  The  direct  influ- 
ence of  physical  causes  on  the  attachment 
between  the  sexes  is  comparatively  small, 
but  it  is  modified  by  moral  causes  beyond 
any  other  affection  of  the  mind.  Of  these, 
music  and  poetry  are  the  chief.  Among 
the  snows  of  Lapland,  and  under  the 
burning  sun  of  Angola,  the  savage  is  seen 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


hastening  to  his  mistress,  and  every  where 
he  beguiles  the  weariness  of  his  journey 
wit'h  poetry  and  song.* 

In  appreciating  the  happiness  and  vir- 
tue of  a  community,  there  is  perhaps  no 
single  criterion  on  which  so  much  depen- 
dence may  be  placed,  as  the  state  of  the 
intercourse  between  the  sexes.  Where 
this  displays  ardour  of  attachment,  ac- 
companied by  purity  of  conduct,  the  cha- 
racter and  the  influence  of  women  rise 
in  society,  our  imperfect  nature  mounts 
in  the  scale  of  moral  excellence ;  and, 
from  the  source  of  this  single  affec- 
tion, a  stream  of  felicity  descends,  which 
branches  into  a  thousand  rivulets  that 
enrich  and  adorn  the  field  of  life  Where 
the  attachment  between  the  sexes  sinks 
into  an  appetite,  the  heritage  of  our  spe- 
cies is  comparatively  poor,  and  man  ap- 
proaches the  condition  of  the  brutes  that 
perish.  "  If  we  could  with  safety  indulge 
the  pleasing  supposition  that  Fingal  lived 
and  that  Ossian  sung,"f  Scotland,  judg- 
ing from  this  criterion,  might  be  consi- 
dered as  ranking  high  in  happiness  and 
virtue  in  very  remote  a^es.  To  appre- 
ciate her  situation  by  the  same  criterion 
in  our  own  times,  would  be  a  delicate 
and  a  difficult  undertaking.  After  con- 
sidering the  probable  inlluence  of  her 
popular  songs  and  her  national  music,  and 
examining  how  far  the  effects  to  be  ex- 
pected from  these  are  supported  by  facts, 
the  inquirer  would  also  have  to  examine 
the  influence  of  other  causes,  and  parti- 
cularly of  her  civil  and  ecclesiastical  insti- 
tutions, by  which  the  character,  and  even 
the  manners  of  a  people,  though  silently 
and  slowly,  are  often  powerfully  controll- 
ed. In  the  point  of  view  in  which  we 
are  considering  the  subject,  the  ecclesi- 
astical establishments  of  Scotland  may 
be  supposed  peculiarly  favourable  to  pu- 
rity  of  conduct.  The  dissoluteness  of 
manners  among  the  catholic  clergy,  which 
preceded,  and  in  some  measure  produced 
the  Reformation,  led  to  an  extraordinary 
strictness  on  the  part  of  the  reformers, 
and  especially  in  that  particular  in  which 
the  licentiousness  of  the  clergy  had  been 
carried  to  its  greatest  height — the  inter- 
course between  the  sexes.  Onthispoint, 
as  on  all  others  connected  with  au^ 

*  The  North  American  Indians,  amonp  whom  the 
attachment  betwei  n  thi  si  sen  is  vniil  to  be  weak,  and 
love,  in  the  purer  sense  of  the  word,  unknown,  seem 
nearly  unacquainted  with  the  charms  of  poet 
utusie.      •  a  Weld  i   Tour. 

\  Gibbon. 


of  manners,  the  disciples  of  Calvin  as- 
sumed a  greater  severity  than  those  of 
the  Protestant  episcopal  church.  The 
punishment  of  illicit  connexion  between 
the  sexes,  was  throughout  all  Europe,  a 
province  which  the  clergy  assumed  to 
themselves  ;  and  the  church  of  Scotland, 
which  at  the  Reformation  renounced  so 
many  powers  and  privileges,  at  that  pe- 
riod took  this  crime  under  her  more  es- 
pecial jurisdiction.*  Where  pregnancy 
takes  place  without  marriage,  the  condi- 
tion of  the  female  causes  the  discovery, 
and  it  is  on  her,  therefore,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, that  the  clergy  and  elders  of  the 
church  exercise  their  zeal.  After  exami- 
nation, before  the  kirk-session,  touching 
the  circumstances  of  her  guilt,  she  must 
endure  a  public  penance,  and  sustain  a 
public  rebuke  from  the  pulpit,  for  three 
Sabbaths  successively,  in  the  face  of  the 
congregation  to  which  she  belongs,  and 
thus  have  her  weakness  exposed,  and  her 
sname  blazoned.  The  sentence  is  the 
same  with  respect  to  the  male  ;  but  how 
much  lighter  the  punishment !  It  is  well 
known  that  this  dreadful  law,  worthy  of 
the  iron  minds  of  Calvin  and  of  Knox,  has 
often  led  to  consequences,  at  the  very 
mention  of  which  human  nature  recoils 

While  the  punishment  of  incontinence 
prescribed  by  the  institutions  of  Scotland 
is  severe,  the  culprits  have  an  obvious 
method  of  avoiding  it  afforded  them  by 
the  law  respecting  marriage,  the  validity 
of  which  requires  neither  the  ceremonies 
of  the  church,  nor  any  other  ceremonies, 
but  simply  the  deliberate  acknowledg- 
ment of  each  other  as  husband  and  wife, 
made  by  the  parties  before  witnesses,  or 
in  any  other  way  that  gives  legal  evidence 
of  such  an  acknowledgment  having  taken 
place.  And  as  the  parties  themselves 
fix  the  date  of  their  marriage,  an  oppor- 
tunity is  thus  given  to  avoid  the  punish- 
ment, and  repair  the  consequences  of  il- 
licit gratification.  Such  a  degree  of  laxi- 
ty respecting  so  serious  a  contract  might 
produce  much  confusion  in  the  descent  of 
property,  without  a  still  farther  indul- 
gence; but  the  law  of  Scotland  legiti- 
mating all  children  born  before  wedlock, 
on  the  subsequent  marriage  of  their  pa- 
rent-, renders  the  actual  date  of  the  mar- 
riage  itself  of  little  consequence.f  Mar. 
riages  contracted  in  Scotland  without  the 
ceremonies  of  the  church,  are  considered 

»  See  Appendix,  No.  I.  NoteO. 
t  See  Appendix,  No.  I.  Note  D 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


as  irregular,  and  the  parties  usually  sub- 
mit to  a  rebuke  for  their  conduct,  in  the 
face  of  their  respective  congregations, 
which  is  not  however  necessary  to  render 
the  marriage  valid.  Burns,  whose  mar- 
riage, it  will  appear,  was  irregular,  does 
not  seem  to  have  undergone  this  part  of 
the  discipline  of  the  church. 

Thus,  though  the  institutions  of  Scot- 
land are  in  many  particulars  favourable 
to  a  conduct  among  the  peasantry  found- 
ed on  foresight  and  reflection, on  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage  the  reverse  of  this  is 
true.  Irregular  marriages,  it  may  be 
naturally  supposed,  are  often  improvident 
ones,  in  whatever  rank  of  society  they 
occur.  The  children  of  such  marriages, 
poorly  endowed  by  their  parents,  find  a 
certain  degree  of  instruction  of  easy  ac- 
quisition ;  but.  the  comforts  of  life,  and 
the  gratifications  of  ambition,  they  find 
of  more  difficult  attainment  in  their  na- 
tive soil  ;  and  thus  the  marriage  Jaws  of 
Scotland  conspire  with  other  circumstan- 
ces, to  produce  that  habit  of  emigration, 
and  spirit  of  adventure,  for  which  the 
people  are  so  remarkable. 

The  manners  and  appearance  of  the 
Scottish  peasantry  do  not  bespeak  to  a 
stranger  the  degree  of  their  cultivation. 
In  their  own  country,  their  industry  is 
inferior  to  that  of  the  same  description  of 
men  in  the  southern  division  of  the  island. 
Industry  and  the  useful  arts  reached  Scot- 
land later  than  England  ;  and  though 
their  advance  has  been  rapid  there, 
the  effects  produced  are  as  yet  far  inferior 
both  in  reality  and  in  appearance.  The 
Scottish  farmers  have  in  general  neither 
the  opulence  nor  the  comforts  of  those  of 
England,  neither  vest  the  same  capital 
in  the  soil,  nor  receive  from  it  the  same 
return.  Their  clothing,  their  food,  and 
their  habitations,  are  almost  everywhere 
inferior.*  Their  appearance  in  these 
respects  corresponds  with  the  appearance 
of  their  country ;  and  under  the  operation 
of  patient  industry,  both  are  improving. 
Industry  and  the  useful  arts  came  later 
into  Scotland  than  into  England,  because 
the  security  of  property  came  later.  With 
causes  of  internal  agitation  and  warfare, 
similar  to  those  which  occured  to  the 
more  southern  nation,  the  people  of  Scot- 

*  These  remarks  are  confined  to  the  class  of  farmers  ; 
the  same  corresponding  inferiority  will  not  be  found  in 
the  condition  of  the  cottagers  and  labourers,  at  least 
in  the  article  of  food,  as  those  who  examine  this  sub- 
ject impartially  will  soou  discover. 


'and  were  exposed  to  more  imminent  ha- 
zards, and  more  extensive  and  destruc- 
tive spoliation,  from  external  war.  Oc- 
cupied  in  the  maintenance  of  their  inde- 
pendence against  their  more  powerful 
neighbours,  to  this  were  necessarily  sa- 
crificed the  arts  of  peace,  and  at  certain 
periods,  the  flower  of  their  population. 
And  when  the  union  of  the  crowns  pro- 
duced a  security  from  national  wars  with 
England,  for  the  century  succeeding,  the 
civil  wars  common  to  both  divisions  of  the 
island,  and  the  dependence,  perhaps  the 
necessary  dependence  of  the  Scottish 
councils  on  those  of  the  more  powerful 
kingdom,  counteracted  this  disadvantage. 
Even  the  union  of  the  British  nations  was 
not,  from  obvious  causes,  immediately 
followed  by  all  the  benefits  which  it  was 
ultimately  destined  to  produce.  At  length, 
however,  these  benefits  are  distinctly  felt, 
and  generally  acknowledged.  Property 
is  secure ;  manufactures  and  commerce 
increasing;  and  agriculture  is  rapidly 
improving  in  Scotland.  As  yet,  indeed, 
the  farmers  are  not,  in  general,  enabled 
to  make  improvements  out  of  their  own 
capitals,  as  in  England  ;  but  the  landhold- 
ers, who  have  seen  and  felt  the  advan- 
tages resulting  from  them,  contribute 
towards  them  with  a  liberal  hand.  Hence 
property^  as  well  as  population,  is  accu- 
mulating rapidly  on  the  Scottish  soil ;  and 
the  nation,  enjoying  a  great  part  of  the 
blessings  of  Englishmen,  and  retaining 
several  of  their  own  happy  institutions, 
might  be  considered,  if  confidence  could 
be  placed  in  human  foresight,  to  be  as 
yet  only  in  an  early  stage  of  their  pro- 
gress. Yet  there  are  obstructions  in  their 
way.  To  the  cultivation  of  the  soil  are 
opposed  the  extent  and  the  strictness  of 
the  entails;  to  the  improvement  of  the 
people,  the  rapidly  increasing  use  of  spi- 
rituous liquors,*  a  detestable  practice, 
which  includes' in  its  consequences  al- 
most every  evil,  physical  and  moral.  The 
peculiarly  social  disposition  of  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry  exposes  them  to  this  prac- 
tice. This  disposition,  which  is  fostered 
by  their  national  songs  and  music,  is  per- 
haps characteristic  of  the  nation  at  large. 
Though  the  source  of  many  pleasures,  it 
counteracts  by  its  consequences  the  ef- 

*  The  amount  of  the  duty  on  spirits  distilled  in  Scot- 
land is  now  upwards  of  250,000/.  annually.  In  1777,  it 
did  not  reach  8,000Z-  The  rate  of  the  duty  has  indeed 
been  raised,  but  making  every  allowance,  the  increase 
of  consumption  must  be  enormous.  This  is  indepen- 
dent of  the  duty  on  malt,  &.c.  malt  liquor,  imported 
spirits,  and  wine. 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


fects  of  their  patience,  industry,  and  fru- 
gality, both  at  home  and  abroad,  of  which 
those  especially  who  have  witnessed  the 
progress  of  Scotchmen  in  other  coun- 
tries, must  have  known  many  striking  in- 
stall. 

Smee  the  Union,  the  manners  and  lan- 
guage of  the  people  of  Scotland  have  no 
longer  a  standard  among  themselves,  but 
are  tried  by  the  standard  of  the  nation  to 
which  they  are  united.  Though  their 
habits  are  far  from  being  flexible,  yet  it 
is  evident  that  their  manners  and  dialed 
are  undergoing  a  rapid  change.  Even 
the  farmers  of  the  present  day  appear  to 
have  less  of  the  peculiarities  of  their  coun- 
try in  their  speech,  than  the  men  of  let- 
ters of  the  last  generation.  Burns,  who 
never  left  the  island,  nor  penetrated  far- 
ther into  England  than  Carlisle  on  the 
one  hand,  or  Newcastle  on  the  other,  had 
less  of  the  Scottish  dialect  than  Hume, 
who  lived  for  many  years  in  the  best  so- 
ciety of  England  and  France:  or  perhaps 
than  Robertson,  who  wrote  the  English 
language  in  a  style  of  such  purity:  and  if 
he  had  been  in  other  respects  fitted  to 
taken  lend  in  the  British  House  of  Com- 
mons, his  pronunciation  would  neither 
have  fettered  his  eloquence,  nor  deprived 
it  of  its  due  effect. 

A  striking  particular  in  the  charac- 
ter of  the  Scottish  peasantry,  is  one 
which  it  is  hoped  will  not  be  lost — the 
strength  of  their  domestic  attachments. 
The  privation  to  which  many  parents 
submit  for  the  good  of  their  children,  and 
particularly  to  obtain  for  them  instruc- 
tion, which  they  consider  as  the  chief 
good,  has  already  been  noticed.  If  their 
children  live  and  prosper,  they  have  their 
certain  reward,  not  merely  as  witnessing, 
but,  as  sharing  of  their  prosperity.  Even 
in  the  humblest  ranks  of  the  peasantry, 
the  earnings  of  the  children  may  gene- 
rally be  considered  as  at  the  disposal  of 
their  parents;  perhaps  in  no  country  is  so 
large  a  portion  of  the  wages  of  labour 
applied  to  the  support  and  comfort  of 
those  whose  days  of  labour  are  past.  A 
similar  strength  of  attachment  extends 
through  all  the  domestic  relations. 

Our  poet  partook  largely  of  this  amia- 
ble characterisl  icofhis  humble  compeers; 

he   Was  also  Btrongly  tinctured  with  ano- 

t  Imt  b1  riking  feature   « Inch   belongs  to 

I  hem.    n.  partiality  for  his  native  country, 

of  winch  many  proofs  maybe  found  in  his 


writ  ings.  This,  it  must  he  confessed,  is  a 
very  strong  and  general  sentiment  among 
the  natives  of  Scotland,  differing,  how- 
ever, in  its  character,  according  to  the 
character  of  the  different  minds  in  which 
it  is  found;  in  some  appearing  a  selfish 
prejudice,  in  others,  a  generous  affection. 

A  n  attachment  to  the  land  of  their  birth 
is,  indeed,  common  to  all  men.  It  is  found 
among  the  inhabitants  of  every  region  of 
the  earth,  from  the  arctic  to  the  antarctic 
circle,  in  all  the  vast  variety  of  climate, 
of  surface,  and  of  civilization.  To  analyze 
this  general  sentiment,  to  trace  it  through 
the  mazes  of  association  up  to  the  prima- 
ry affection  in  which  it  has  its  source, 
would  neither  be  a  difficult  nor  an  un- 
pleasing  labour.  On  the  first  considera- 
tion of  the  subject,  we  should  perhaps 
expect  to  find  this  attachment  strong  in 
proportion  to  the  physical  advantages  of 
the  soil ;  but  inquiry,  far  from  confirming 
this  supposition,  seems  rather  to  lead  to 
an  opposite  conclusion. — In  those  fertile 
regions  where  beneficent  nature  yields 
almost  spontaneously  whatever  is  neces- 
sary to  human  wants,  patriotism,  as  well 
as  every  other  generous  sentiment,  seems 
weak  and.  languid.  In  countries  less  rich- 
ly endowed,  when1  the  comforts,  and  even 
necessaries  of  life  must  be  purchased  by 
patient  toil,  the  affections  of  the  mind,  as 
well  as  the  faculties  of  the  understanding, 
improve  under  exertion,  and  patriotism 
flourishes  amidst  its  kindred  virtues. 
Where  it  is  necessary  to  combine  for  mu- 
tual defence,  as  well  as  for  the  supply  of 
common  wants,  mutual  good-will  springs 
from  mutual  difficulties  and  labours,  the 
social  affections  unfold  themselves,  and 
extend  from  the  men  with  whom  we  live, 
to  1  he  soil  on  which  we  tread.  It  will  per- 
haps be  found  indeed,  that  our  atl'ections 
cannol  be  originally  called  forth,  hut  by 
objects  capable,  or  supposed  capable,  of 
feeling  our  sentiments,  and  of  returning 
them;  but  when  once  excited  they  are 
strengthened  by  exercise,  they  arc  ex- 
panded by  the  powers  of  imagination,  and 
seize  more  especially  on  those  inanimate 
parts  of  creation,  which  form  tin1  theatre 
on  which  we  have  first  felt  the  alternations 
of  joy,  and  sorrow,  and  first  tasted  the 
sweets  of  sympathy  and  regard.  If  this 
reasoning  be  just,  the  love  of  our  country, 
although  modified,  and  even  extinguished 
in  individuals  by  the  chances  and  changes 

of  life,  may  be  presumed,  in  our  general 
reasonings,  to  be  strong  among  a  people, 
in  proportion  to  their  social,  and   more 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 


especially  to  their  domestic  affections.  In 
free  government s  it.  is  found  more  active 
than  in  despotic  ones,  because  as  the  in- 
dividual becomes  of  more  consequence  in 
the  community,  the  community  becomes 
of  more  consequence  to  him.  In  small 
states  it  is  generally  more  active  than  in 
large  ones,  for  the  same  reason,  and  also 
because  the  independence  of  a  small  com- 
munity being  maintained  with  difficulty, 
and  frequently  endangered,  sentiments  of 
patriotism  are  more  frequently  excited, 
in  mountainous  countries  it  is  generally 
found  more  active  than  in  plains,  because 
there  the  necessities  of  life  often  require 
a  closer  union  of  the  inhabitants;  and 
more  especially,  because  in  such  coun- 
tries, though  less  populous  than  plains, 
the  inhabitants,  instead  of  being  scattered 
equally  over  the  whole  are  usually  divid- 
ed into  small  communities  on  the  sides  of 
their  separate  valleys,  and  on  the  banks 
of  their  respective  streams ;  situations 
well  calculated  to  call  forth  and  to  con- 
centrate the  social  affections,  amidst  sce- 
nery thsft  acts  most  powerfully  on  the 
sight,  and  makes  a  lasting  impression  on 
the  memory.  It  may  also  be  remarked, 
that  mountainous  countries  are  often  pe- 
culiarly calculated  to  nourish  sentiments 
of  national  pride  and  independence,  from 
the  influence  of  history  on  the  affections 
of  the  mind.  In  such  countries  from  their 
natural  strength,  inferior  nations  have 
maintained  their  independence  against 
their  more  powerful  neighbours,  and  va- 
lour, in  all  ages,  has  made  its  most  success- 
ful efforts  against  oppression.  Such  coun- 
tries present  the  fields  of  battle,  where 
the  tide  of  invasion  was  rolled  back,  and 
where  the  ashes  of  those  rest,  who  have 
died  in  defence  of  their  nation. 

The  operation  of  the  various  causes  we 
have  mentioned  is  doubtless  more  general 
and  more  permanent,  where  the  scenery 


of  a  country,  the  peculiar  manners  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  the  martial  achieve- 
ments of  their  ancestors  are  embodied  in 
national  songs,  and  united  to  national 
music.  By  this  combination,  the  ties 
thai  attach  men  to  the  land  of  their  birth 
are  multiplied  and  strengthened :  and  the 
images  of  infancy,  strongly  associating 
with  the  generous  affections,  resist  the 
influence  of  time,  and  of  new  impressions; 
they  often  survive  in  countries  far  distant, 
and  amidst  far  different  scenes,  to  the 
latest  periods  of  life,  to  sooth  the  heart 
with  the  pleasures  of  memory,  when 
those  of  hope  die  away. 

If  this  reasoning  be  just,  it  will  explain 
to  us  why,  among  the  natives  of  Scot- 
land, even  of  cultivated  minds,  we  so 
generally  find  a  partial  attachment  to  the 
land  of  their  birth,  and  why  this  is  so 
strongly  discoverable  in  the  writings  of 
Burns,  who  joined  to  the  higher  powers  of 
the  understanding  the  most  ardent  affec- 
tions. Let  not  men  of  reflection  think 
it  a  superfluous  labour  to  trace  the  rise 
and.  progress  of  a  character  like  his. 
Born  in  the  condition  of  a  peasant,  he 
rose  by  the  force  of  his  mind  into  distinc- 
tion and  influence,  and  in  his  works  has 
exhibited  what  are  so  rarely  found,  the 
charms  of  original  genius.  With  a  deep 
insight  into  the  human  heart,  his  poetry 
exhibits  high  powers  of  imagination — it 
displays,  and  as  it  were  embalms,  the  pe- 
culiar manners  of  his  country  ;  and  it  may 
be  considered  as  a  monument,  not  to  his 
own  name  only,  but  to  the  expiring  geni- 
us of  an  ancient  and  once  independent 
nation.  In  relating  the  incidents  of  his 
life,  candour  will  prevent  us  from  dwell- 
ing invidiously  on  those  failings  which 
justice  forbids  us  to  conceal;  we  will 
tread  lightly  over  his  yet  warm  ashes, 
and  respect  the  laurels  that  shelter  his 
untimely  grave. 


THE  LIFE 

OF 

lIBffiff    JBWJBHT 

BY   DR.  CURRIE. 


Robert  Burns  was,  as  is  well  known, 
the  son  of  a  farmer  in  Ayrshire,  and  af- 
terwards himself  a  farmer  there;  but, 
having  been  unsuccessful,  he  was  about 
to  emigrate  to  Jamaica.  He  had  previ- 
ously, however,  attracted  some  notice  by 
his  poetical  talents  in  the  vicinity  where 
he  lived ;  and  having  published  a  small 
volume  of  his  poems  at  Kilmarnock,  this 
drew  upon  him  more  general  attention. 
In  consequence  of  the  encouragement  he 
received,  he  repaired  to  Edinburgh,  and 
there  published  by  subscription,  an  im- 
proved and  enlarged  edition  of  his  poems, 
which  met  with  extraordinary  success. 
By  the  profits  arising  from  the  sale  of  this 
edition,  he  was  enabled  to  enter  on  a 
farm  in  Dumfries-shire  ;  and  having  mar- 
ried a  person  to  whom  he  had  been  long 
attached,  he  retired  to  devote  the  remain- 
der of  his  life  to  agriculture.  He  was 
a<jain,  however,  unsuccessful;  and,  aban- 
doning his  farm,  he  removed  into  the 
town  of  Dumfries,  where  he  filled  an  in- 
ferior office  in  the  excise,  and  where  he 
terminated  his  life,  in  July  1796,  in  his 
thirty-eighth  year. 

The  strength  and  originality  of  his  ge- 
nius procured  him  the  notice  of  many 
persons  distinguished  in  the  republic  of 
litters,  and,  among  others,  that  of  Dr. 
Moore,  well  known  for  his  Views  of  Soci- 
ety and  Manners  on  the  Continent  of  Eu- 
rope, Zeluco,  and  various  other  works. 
To  this  gentleman  our  poet  addressed  a 
letter,  after  his  first  visit  to  Edinburgh, 
;n\ing  a  history  of  his  life,  up  to  the  pe- 
riod of  his  writing.  In  a  composition 
never  intended  to  see  the  light,  elegance, 
or  perfect  correctness  of  composition  will 
not  be  expected.  These,  however,  will 
be  compensated  by  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  our  poet,  as  he  gives  the  incidents 


of  his  life,  unfold  the  peculiarities  of  his 
character  with  all  the  careless  vigour  and 
open  sincerity  of  his  mind. 

Mauchline,  2d  August,  1787. 

"  Sir, 

"  For  some  months  past  I  have  been 
rambling  over  the  country ;  but  I  am  now 
confined  with  some  lingering  complaints, 
originating,  as  I  take  it,  in  the  stomach. 
To  divert  my  spirits  a  little  in  this  mise- 
rable fog  of  ennui,  I  have  taken  a  whim 
to  give  you  a  history  of  myself.  My 
name  has  made  some  little  noise  in  this 
country ;  you  have  done  me  the  honour 
to  interest  yourself  very  warmly  in  my 
behalf;  and  I  think  a  faithful  account  of 
what  character  of  a  man  I  am,  and  how 
I  came  by  that  character,  may  perhaps 
amuse  you  in  an  idle  moment.  I  will 
give  you  an  honest  narrative ;  though  I 
know  it  will  be  often  at  my  own  expense ; 
for  I  assure  you,  Sir,  I  have,  like  Solo- 
mon, whose  character,  excepting  in  the 
trifling  affair  of  wisdom,  I  sometimes  think 
I  resemble — I  have,  I  say,  like  him,  turn- 
ed my  eyes  to  behold  madness  and  folly, 
and,  like  him,  too  frequently  shaken  hands 
with  their  intoxicating  friendship.*  *  * 
After  you  have  perused  these  pages, 
should  you  think  them  trilling  and  imper- 
tinent, I  only  beg  leave  to  tell  you,  that 
the  poor  author  wrote  them  under  some 
twitching  qualms  of  conscience,  arising 
from  suspicion  that  he  was  doing  what 
he  ought  not  to  do  :  a  predicament  he  has 
more  than  once  been  in  before. 

"  I  have  not  the  most  distant  pretensions 
to  assume  that  character  which  the  pye- 
coated  guardians  of  escutcheons  call  a 
Gentleman.  When  at  Edinburgh  last 
winter,  I  got  acquainted  in  the  Herald's 
Office ;  and,  looking  through  that  granary 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


11 


of  honours,  I  thero  found  almost  every 
name  in  the  kingdom ;  but  for  me, 

'•  My  ancient  but  ignoble  blooil 
Has  crept  thro'  scoundrels  ever  since  the  flood." 

Gules,  Purpure,  Argent,  &c  quite  dis- 
owned me. 

"  My  father  was  of  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, the  son  of  a  farmer,  and  was  thrown 
by  early  misfortunes  on  the  world  at  large; 
where,  after  many  years'  wanderings  and 
sojournings,  he  picked  up  a  pretty  large 
quantity  of  observation  and  experience, 
to  which  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  my 
little  pretensions  to  wisdom.  I  have  met 
with  few  who  understood  men,  their  man- 
ners,  and  their  ways,  equal  to  him;  but 
stubborn,  ungainly  integrity,  and  head- 
long, ungovernable  irascibility,  are  dis- 
qualifying circumstances ;  consequently  I 
was  born  a  very  poor  man's  son.  For  the 
first  six  or  seven  years  of  my  life,  my  fa- 
ther was  gardener  to  a  worthy  gentleman 
of  small  estate  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Ayr.  Had  he  continued  in  that  station, 
I  must  have  marched  off  to  be  one  of  the 
little  underlings  about  a  farm-house ;  but 
it  was  his  dearest  wish  and  prayer  to  have 
it  in  his  power  to  keep  his  children  under 
his  own  eye  till  they  could  discern  be- 
tween good  and  evil ;  so  with  the  assist- 
ance of  his  generous  master,  my  father 
ventured  on  a  small  farm  on  his  estate. 
At  those  years  I  was  by  no  means  a  fa- 
vourite with  any  body.  I  was  a  good 
deal  noted  for  a  retentive  memory,  a  stub- 
born, sturdy  something  in  my  disposition, 
and  an  enthusiastic  ideot*  piety.  I  say 
iileot  piety,  because  I  was  then  but  a 
child.  Though  it  cost  the  schoolmaster 
some  thrashings,  I  made  an  excellent 
English  scholar  ;  and  by  the  time  I  was 
ten  or  eleven  years  of  age,  I  was  a  critic 
in  substantives,  verbs,  and  particles.  In 
my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too,  I  owed 
much  to  an  old  woman  who  resided  in  the 
family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance,  cre- 
dulity and  superstition.  She  had,  I  sup- 
pose, the  largest  collection  in  the  country 
of  tales  and  songs,  concerning  devils, 
ghosts,  fairies,  brownies,  witches,  war- 
locks, spunkies,  kelpies,  elf-candles,  dead- 
light s,  wraiths,  apparitions,  cantraips,  gi- 
ants, enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and 
other  trumpery.  This  cultivated  the  la- 
tent seeds  of  poetry  ;  but  had  so  strong  an 
effect  on  my  imagination,  that  to  this  hour, 
in  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I  sometimes  keep 
a  sharp  look-out  in  suspicious  places:  and 

*  Idiot  for  idiotic. 
6  2 


though  nobody  can  be  more  sceptical  than 
1  am  iii  such  matters,  yet  it  often  takes  an 
cllnit  of  philosophy  to  shake  off  these  idle 
terrors.  The  earliest  composition  that  I 
recollect  taking  pleasure  in,  was  The  Vi- 
rion of  Mirza,  and  a  hymn  of  Addison's, 
beginning,  How  arc  thy  servants  blest,  O 
Lord  !  I  particularly  remember  one  half- 
stanza,  which  was  music  to  my  boyish 
ear — 

"  For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave — " 

I  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  Eng- 
lish Collection,  one  of  my  school-books. 
The  two  first  books  I  ever  read  in  private, 
and  which  gave  me  more  pleasure  than 
any  two  books  I  ever  read  since,  were 
The  Life  of  Hannibal,  and  The  History  of 
Sir  William  Wallace.  Hannibal  gave 
my  young  ideas  such  a  turn,  that  I  used 
to  strut  in  raptures  up  and  down  after  the 
recWiting  drum  and  bag-pipe,  and  wisli 
myself  tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier  ;  while 
the  story  of  Wallace  poured  a  Scottish 
prejudice  into  my  veins,  which  will  boil 
along  there  till  the  flood-gates  of  life  shut 
in  eternal  rest. 

"  Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was 
putting  the  country  half-mad  ;  and  I,  am- 
bitious of  shining  in  conversation  parties 
on  Sundays,  between  sermons,  at  fune- 
rals, &c.  used,  a  few  years  afterwards,  to 
puzzle  Calvinism  with  so  much  heat  and 
indiscretion,  that  I  raised  a  hue  and  cry 
of  heresy  against  me,  which  has  not  ceas- 
ed to  this  hour. 

"  My  vicinity  to  Ayr  was  of  some  ad- 
vantage to  me.  My  social  disposition, 
when  not  checked  by  some  modifications 
of  spirited  pride,  was,  like  our  catechism- 
definition  of  infinitude,  without  bounds  or 
limits.  I  formed  several  connexions  with 
other  younkers  who  possessed  superior 
advantages,  the  youngling  actors,  who 
were  busy  in  the  rehearsal  of  parts  in 
which  they  were  shortly  to  appear  on  the 
stage  of  life,  where,  alas  !  I  was  destined 
to  drudge  behind  the  scenes.  It  is  not 
commonly  at.  this  green  age  that  our 
young  gentry  have  a  just  sense  of  the  im- 
mense distance  between  them  and  their 
ragged  play-fellows.  It  takes  a  few 
dashes  into  the  world,  to  give  the  young 
great  man  that  proper,  decent,  unnoticing 
disregard  for  the  poor,  insignificant,  stu- 
pid devils,  the  mechanics  and  peasantry 
around  him,  who  were  perhaps  born  in 
the  same  village.  My  young  superiors 
never  insulted  the  clouterly  appearance  of 


12 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


my  ploughboy  carcass,  the  two  extremes 
of  which  were  often  exposed  to  all  the  in- 
clemencies of  all  the  seasons.  They  would 
give  me  stray  volumes  of  books;  among 
them,  even  then,  I  could  pick  up  some  ob- 
servations; and  cue,  whose  heart  I  am 
sure  nut  even  the  Muxiny  "Begum  s< 
have  tainted,  helped  me  to  alittle  French. 
Parting  with  these  my  young  firiends  and 
benefactors  as  they  occasionally  went  off 
for  the  East  or  West  Indies,  was  often 
to  me  a  sore  affliction;  but  I  was  soon 
called  to  more  serious  evils.  My  father's 
generous  master  died;  the  farm  proved  a 
ruinous  bargain;  and,  to  clench  the 
fortune,  we  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  factor, 
who  sat  for  the  picture  I  have  drawn  of 
one  in  my  Tale  of  Twa  Dogs.  My  father 
was  advanced  in  life  when  he  married ;  I 
was  the  eldest  of  seven  children;  and  he 
worn  out  by  early  hardships,  wa^jfcifit 
for  labour.  My  father's  spirit  was^Pon 
irritated,  but  not  easily  broken.  There 
was  a  freedom  in  his  lease  in  two  years 
more ;  and,  to  weather  these  two  years, 
we  retrenched  our  expenses.  We  lived 
very  poorly :  I  was  a  dexterous  plough- 
man, for  my  age ;  and  the  next  eldest  to 
me  was  a  brother  (Gilbert)  who  could 
drive  the  plough  very  well,  and  help  mc 
to  thrash  the  corn.  A  novel  writer  might 
perhaps  have  viewed  these  scenes  with 
some  satisfaction ;  but  so  did  not  I ;  my 
indignation  yet  boils  at  the  recollection 
of  the  s 1  factor's  insolent  threat- 
ening letters,  which  used  to  set  us  all  in 
tears. 

"  This  kind  of  life — the  cheerless  gloom 
of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a 
galley-slave,  brought  me  to  my  sixteenth 
year;  a  little  before  which  period  I  first 
committed  the  sin  of  Rhyme.  You  know 
our  country  custom  of  coupling  a  man 
and  woman  together  as  partners  in  the 
labours  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  au- 
tumn my  partner  was  a  bewitching  crea- 
ture, a  year  younger  than  myself.  My 
Bcareity  of  English  denies  me  the  power 
of  doing  her  justice  in  that  language  ;  but 
you  know  the  Scottish  idiom — she  was  a 
bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie  lass.  In  short,  she 
altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself,  initia- 
ted me  in  that  delicious  passion,  which  in 
spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse 
prudence,  and  book-worm  philosophy,  I 
hold  to  be  the  first  of  human  joys,  our 
dearest  blessing  here  below  !  How  she 
caught  the  contagion  I  cannot  tell :  you 
medical  people  talk  much  of  infection  from 
breathing  the  same  air,  the  touch,  &c. ; 


but  I  never  expressly  said  I  loved  her. 
Indeed  I  did  not  know  myself  why  1  liked 
0  much  to  loiter  behind  with  her,  when 
ret  urning  in  the  evening  from  our  labours; 
why  the  tones  of  her  voice  made  my  heart- 
si  rings  thrill  like  an  yEolian  harp;  and 
particularly  why  my  pulse  heat  such  a 
furious  ratan  when  I  looked  and  lingered 
over  her  little  hand  to  pick  out,  the  cruel 
nettle  stings  and  thistles.  Among  her 
other  love-inspiring  qualities,  she  sung 
sweetly;  and  it  was  her  favourite  reel, 
to  which  I  attempted  giving  an  embodied 
\  ehicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so  presump- 
tuous as  to  imagine  that  I  could  make 
verses  like  printed  ones,  composed  by  men 
who  had  Greek  and  Latin ;  but  my  girl 
sung  a  song,  which  was  said  to  be  com- 
posed by  a  small  country  laird's  son,  on 
one  of  his  father's  maids,  with  whom  he 
was  in  love  !  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  I 
might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he ;  for,  ex- 
cepting that  he  could  smear  sheep,  and 
cast  peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moor- 
lands, he  had  no  more  scholar-craft  than 
myself.* 

"  Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry: 
which  at  times  have  been  my  only,  and  • 
till  within  the  last  twelve  months,  have 
been  my  highest  enjoyment.  l\ly  father 
struggled  on  till  he  reached  the  freedom 
in  his  lease,  when  he  entered  on  a  Larger 
farm,  about  ten  miles  far!  her  in  the  coun- 
try. The  nature  of  the  bargain  he  made 
was  such  as  to  throw  a  little  ready  mo- 
ney into  his  hands  at  the  commencement 
of  his  lease,  otherwise  the  affair  would 
have  been  impracticable.  For  four  years 
we  lived  comfortably  here;  but  a  differ- 
ence commencing  between  him  and  his 
landlord  as  to  terms,  after  three  years 
tossing  and  whirling  in  the  vortex  of  liti- 
gation, my  father  was  just,  saved  from  the 
horrors  of  a  jail  by  a  consumption,  which, 
after  two  years'  promises,  kindly  stepped 
in,  and  carried  him  away,  to  where  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest* 

'•'  It  is  during  the  time  that  we  lived  on 
this  farm,  that  my  little  story  is  most, 
eventful.  I  was,  at  the  beginning  of  this 
period,  perhaps  the  most  ungainly,  awk- 
ward boy  in  the  parish — no  solitaire  was 
less  acquainted  with  the  ways  of  the 
world.  What  I  knew  of  ancient  story 
was  gathered  from  Salmon's  and  Gu- 
thrie's geographical  grammars  ;   and  the 

*  See  Appendix,  No.  II.  Note  A.. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


13 


ideas  I  had  formed  of  modern  manners,  of 
literature,  and  criticism,  I  got  from  the 
Spectator.  These  with  Pope's  Works, 
Bome  plays  of  Shakspeare,  Tulland  Dick- 
son on  Agriculture,  The  Pantheon,  Locke's 
Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,  Stack- 
house's  History  of  the  Bible,  Justice's  Brit- 
ish Gardener's  Directory,  Bayle's  Lec- 
tures, Allan  Ttamsdy's  Works.  Taylor's 
Scripture  Doctrine  of  Original  Sin,  A  Se- 
ll it  Collection  of  English  Songs,  and  Her- 
vey's  Meditations,  had  formed  the  whole 
of  my  reading.  The  collection  of  Songs 
was  my  vade  mecum.  I  pored  over  them 
driving  my  cart,  or  walking  td  labour, 
song  by  song,  verse  by  verse :  carefully 
noting  the  true  tender,  or  sublime,  from 
affectation  and  fustian.  I  am  convinced 
1  owe  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic 
craft,  such  as  it  is. 

"  In  my  seventeenth  year,  to  give  my 
manners  a  brush,  I  went  to  a  country 
dancing  school.  My  father  had  an  unac- 
countable antipathy  against  these  meet- 
ings ;  and  my  going  was,  what  to  this 
moment  I  repent,  in  opposition  to  his 
wishes.  My  father,  as  I  said  before,  was 
subject  to  strong  passions;  from  that  in- 
stance of  disobedience  in  me  he  took  a 
sort  of  dislike  to  me,  which  I  believe  was 
one  cause  of  the  dissipation  which  mark- 
ed my  succeeding  years.  I  say  dissipa- 
tion, comparatively  with  the  strictness 
and  sobriety,  and  regularity  of  presbyte- 
rian  country  life;  for  though  the  Will  o' 
Wisp  meteors  of  thoughtless  whim  were 
almost  the  sole  lights  of  my  path,  yet  ear- 
ly ingrained  piety  and  virtue  kept  me  for 
-'■vcral  years  afterwards  within  the  line 
of  innocence.  The  great  misfortune  of 
my  life  was  to  want  an  aim.  I  had  felt 
early  some  stirrings  of  ambition,  but  they 
were  the  blind  gropings  of  Homer's  Cy- 
clop round  the  walls  of  his  cave.  I  saw 
my  father's  situation  entailed  on  me  per- 
petual labour.  The  only  two  openings  by 
which  I  could  enter  the  temple  of  For- 
tune, was  the  gate  of  niggardly  economy, 
or  the  path  of  little  chicaning  bargain- 
making.  The  first  is  so  contracted  an 
aperture,  I  never  could  squeeze  myself 
into  it ; — the  last  I  always  hated — there 
was  contamination  in  the  very  entrance ! 
Thus  abandoned  of  aim  or  view  in  life, 
with  a  strong  appetite  for  sociability,  as 
well  from  native  hilarity  as  from  a  pride 
of  observation  and  remark;  a  constitu-. 
tional  melancholy  or  hvpochondriasm  that 
made  me  fly  from  solitude;  add  to  these 
incentives  to  social  life,  my  reputation  for 


bookish  knowledge,  a  certain  wild  logi- 
cal talent,  and  a  strength  of  thought, 
something  like  the  rudiments  of  good 
;  ami  it  will  not  seem  surprising 
that  I  was  generally  a  welcome  guest 
where  1  visited,  or  any  great  wonder 
that,  always  where  two  or  three  met  to- 
gel  her,  there  was  1  among  them.  But  far 
beyond  all  other  impulses  of  my  heart, 
was  mi  penchant  a  V adorable  moitie  da 
genre  humain.  My  heart  was  completely 
tinder,  and  was  eternally  lighted  up  by 
some  goddess  or  other ;  and  as  in  every 
other  warfare  in  this  world,  my  fortune 
was  various,*  sometimes  I  was  received 
with  favour,  and  sometimes  I  was  morti- 
fied with  a  repulse.  At  the  plough,  scyl  he, 
or  reaping  hook,  I  feared  no  competitor, 
and  thus  I  set  absolute  want  at  defiance; 
and  as  I  never  cared  farther  for  my  la- 
bours than  while  I  was  in  actual  exercise, 
I  spent  the  evenings  in  the  way  after  my 
own  heart.  A  country  lad  seldom  carries 
on  a  love-adventure  without  an  assisting 
confidant.  I  possessed  a  curiosity,  zeal, 
and  intrepid  dexterity,  that  recommended 
me  as  a  proper  second  on  these  occasions ; 
and  I  dare  say,  I  felt  as  much  pleasure  in 
being  in  the  secret  of  half  the  loves  of  the 
parish  of  Tarbolton,  as  ever  did  statesman 
in  knowing  the  intrigues  of  half  the  courts 
of  Europe.  The  very  goose  feather  in  my 
hand  seems  to  know  instinctively  the  well- 
worn  path  of  my  imagination,  the  favour- 
ite theme  of  my  song  :  and  is  with  diffi- 
culty restrained  from  giving  you  a  couple 
of  paragraphs  on  the  iove-adventures  of 
my  compeers,  the  humble  inmates  of  the 
farm-house,  and  cottage ;  but  the  grave 
sons  of  science,  ambition,  or  avarice,  bap- 
tize these  things  by  the  name  of  Follies. 
To  the  sons  and  daughters  of  labour  and 
poverty,  they  are  matters  of  the  most  se- 
rious nature;  to  them,  the  ardent  hope, 
the  stolen  interview,  the  tender  farewell, 
are  the  greatest  and  most  delicious  parts 
of  their  enjoyments. 

"Another  circumstance  in  my  life  which 
made  some  alterations  in  my  mind  and 
manners,  was  that  I  spent  my  nineteenth 
summer  on  a  smuggling  coast,  a  good 
distance  from  home  at  a  noted  school,  to 
learn  mensuration,  surveying,  dialling, 
&c.  in  which  I  made  a  pretty  good  pro- 
gress. But  I  made  a  greater  progress  in 
the  knowledge  of  mankind.  The  con- 
traband trade  was  at  that  time  very  suc- 
cessful, and  it.  sometimes  happened  to  me 
to  fall  in  with  those  who  carried  it  on. 
Scenes  of  swaggering,  riot  and  roaring 


14 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


dissipation  were  till  this  time  new  to  me; 
but  I  was  no  enemy  to  social  life.  Here, 
though  I  learnt  to  fill  my  glass,  and  to 
mix  without  fear  in  a  drunken  squabble, 
yet  I  went  on  with  a  high  hand  with  my 
geometry,  till  the  sun  entered  Virgo,  a 
month  which  is  always  a  carnival  in  my 
bosom,  when  a  charming  filette  who  lived 
next  door  to  the  school,  overset  my  tri- 
gonometry, and  set  me  off  at  a  tangent 
from  the  sphere  of  my  studies.  I,  how- 
ever, struggled  on  with  my  nines  and  co- 
sines for  a  few  days  more  ;  but  stepping 
into  the  garden  one  charming  noon  to 
take  the  sun's  altitude,  tnere  I  met  my 
angel, 

"  Like  Proserpine  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  flower- '• 

"  It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any 
more  good  at  school.  The  remaining 
week  I  staid,  I  did  nothing  but  craze  the 
faculties  of  my  soul  about  her,  or  steal 
out.  to  meet  her ;  and  the  two  last  nights 
of  my  stay  in  the  country,  had  sleep  been 
a  mortal  sin.  the  image  of  this  modest  and 
innocent  girl  had  kept  me  guiltless. 

"  I  returned  home  very  considerably 
improved.  My  reading  was  enlarged  with 
the  very  important  addition  of  Thomson's 
and  Shenstone's  Works;  I  had  seen  hu- 
man nature  in  a  new  phasis;  and  I  en- 
gaged several  of  my  school-fellows  to 
keep  up  a  literary  correspondence  with 
me.  This  improved  me  in  composition. 
I  had  met  with  a  collection  of  letters  by 
the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  I 
pored  over  them  most  devoutly ;  I  kept 
copies  of  any  of  my  own  letters  that  pleas- 
ed me  ;  and  a  comparison  between  them 
and  the  composition  of  most  of  my  corres- 
pondents, flattered  my  vanity.  I  carried 
this  whim  so  far,  that  though  I  had  not 
three  farthings'  worth  of  business  in  the 
world,  yet  almost  every  post  brought  me 
as  many  letters  as  if  1  had  been  a  broad 
plodding  son  of  day-book  and  ledger. 

"  My  life  flowed  on  much  in  the  same 
course  till  my  twenty-third  year.  Vive 
V  amour,  et  vive  la  bagatt  ll<\  were  my 
sole  principles  of  action.  The  addition 
of  two  more  authors  to  my  library  gave 
me  great  pleasure;  Sterne  and  M'Kenzie 
—  Tristram  Shandy  and  The  .Man  of  Feel- 
ing— were  my  bosom  favourites.  Poesy 
was  still  a  darling  walk  for  my  mind  ;  but 
it  was  only  indulged  in  according  to  the 
humour  of  the  hour.     I  had  usually  half 


a  dozen  or  more  pieces  on  hand  ;  I  took 
up  one  or  other,  as  it  suited  the  moment- 
ary tone  of  the  mind,  and  dismissed  the 
work  as  it  bordered  on  fatigue.  My  pas- 
sions, when  once  lighted  up,  raged  like  so 
many  devils,  till  they  got  vent  in  rhyme, 
and  then  the  conning  over  my  verses,  like 
a  spell,  soothed  all  into  quiet!  None  of 
the  rhymes  of  those  days  are  in  print,  ex- 
cept Winter,  a  Dirge,  the  eldest  of  my 
printed  pieces ;  The  Death  of  Poor  Mai- 
lie,  John  Barleycorn,  and  songs  first,  se- 
cond, and  third.  Song  second  was  the 
ebullition  of  that  passion  which  ended  the 
forementioned  school-business. 

"  My  twenty-third  year  was  to  me  an 
important  era.  Partly  through  whim,  and 
partly  that  I  wished  to  set  about  doing 
something  in  life,  I  joined  a  flax-dresser 
in  a  neighbouring  town  (Irvine)  to  learn 
his  trade.  This  was  an  unlucky  affair.  My 
***;  and  to  finish  the  whole,  as  we  were 
giving  a  welcome  carousal  to  the  iu-w 
year,  the  shop  took  fire,  and  burnt  to  ash- 
es; and  I  was  left  like  a  true  poet,  not 
worth  a  sixpence. 

"  I  was  obliged  to  give  up  this  scheme; 
the  clouds  of  misfortune  were  gathering 
thick  round  my  father's  head  ;  and  what 
was  worst  of  all  he  was  visibly  far  gone 
in  a  consumption ;  aim  to  crown  my 
distresses,  a  belle  file  whom  I  adored, 
and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet 
me  in  the  field  of  matrimony,  jilted  me, 
with  peculiar  circumstances  of  mortifica- 
tion. The  finishing  evil  that  brought  up 
the  rear  of  this  infernal  file,  was  my  con- 
stitutional melancholy,  being  increased  to 
such  a  degree,  that  for  three  months  I 
was  in  a  state  of  mind  scarcely  to  be  en- 
vied by  the  hopeless  wretches  who  have 
got  their  mittimus — Depart  from  me,  ye 
act  ursed ! 

"  From  this  adventure  I  learned  some- 
thing of  a  town  life;  but  the  principal 
thing  which  gave  my  mind  a  turn,  was  a 
friendship  I  formed  with  a  young  fellow, 
a  very  noble  character,  but  a  hapless  son 
of  misfortune,  lie  was  the  son  of  a  sim- 
ple mechanic ;  but  a  great  man  in  the 
neighbourhood  taking  him  under  his  pa- 
tronage,  gave  him  a  genteel  education, 
with  a  view  of  bettering  his  situation  in 
life.  The  patron  dying  just  as  he  was 
ready  to  launch  out  into  the  world,  the 
poor  fellow  in  despair  went  to  sea;  where 
after  a  variety  of  good  and  ill  fortune,  a 
little  before  I  was  acquainted  with  him, 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ho  had  hecn  set  on  shore  hy  an  American 
privateer,  on  the  wild  coast  of  Connaughl , 
stripped  of  everything.  I  cannot  quil  this 
poor  fellow's  story  without  adding,  that 
lie  is  at  this  time  master  of  a  large  West- 
Indiaman  belonging  to  the  Thames. 

"  His  mind  was  fraught  with  indepen- 
dence, magnanimity,  and  every  manly 
virtue.  I  loved  and  admired  him  to  a  de- 
gree of  enthusiasm,  and  of  course  strove 
to  imitate  him.  In  some  measure  I  suc- 
ceeded; I  had  pride  before,  but  he  taught 
it  to  tlow  in  proper  channels.  His  know- 
ledge  of  t lie  world  was  vastly  superior  to 
mine,  and  I  was  all  attention  to  learn.  He 
was  the  only  man  I  ever  saw  who  was  a 
greater  fool  than  myself,  where  woman 
was  the  presiding  star;  bnt  he  spoke  of 
illicit  love  with  the  levity  of  a  sailor, 
which  hitherto  I  had  regarded  with  hor- 
ror. Here  his  friendship  did  me  a  mis- 
chief;  and  the  consequence  was  that  soon 
after  I  resumed  the  plough,  I  wrote  the 
Poet's  Welcome.*  My  reading  only  in- 
creased, while  in  this  town,  by  two  stray 
volumes  of  Pamela,  and  one  of  Ferdinand 
Count  Fathom,  which  gave  me  some  idea 
of  novels.  Rhyme,  except  some  religious 
pieces  that  are  in  print,  I  had  given  up; 
but  meeting  with  Ferguson's  Scottish  Po- 
ems, I  strung  anew  my  wildly  sounding 
lyre  with  emulating  vigour.  When  my 
father  died,  his  all  went  among  the  hell- 
hounds that  prowl  in  the  kennel  of  justice ; 
but  we  made  a  shift  to  collect  a  little  mo- 
ney in  the  family  amongst  us,  with  which, 
to  keep  us  together,  my  brother  and  I 
took  a  neighbouring  farm.  My  brother 
wanted  my  hair-brained  imagination,  as 
well  as  my  social  and  amorous  madness ; 
but,  in  good  sense,  and  every  sober  quali- 
fication, he  was  far  my  superior. 

"  I  entered  on  this  farm  with  a  full  re- 
solution, Come,  go  to,  I  toill  be  wise  !  I 
read  farming  books;  I  calculated  crops  : 
I  attended  markets ;  and,  in  short,  in  spite 
ot'//;c  devil,  and  the  icorld,  and  thejlesh,  I 
believe  I  should  have  been  a  wise  man  ; 
but  the  first  year,  from  unfortunately  buy- 
ing bad  seed,  the  second,  from  a  late  har- 
vest, we  lost  half  our  crops.  This  over- 
Sei  all  my  wisdom,  and  I  returned,  like 
the  dog  to  his  vomit,  am!  the  sow  that  teas- 
washed,  to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire.] 

I  now  began  to  be  known  in  the  neigh- 

*  Rob  the  Rhymer's  Welcome  to  his  Bastard  Child, 
t  See  Appendix,  No.  II.  Nuic  B. 


bourhood  as  a  maker  of  rhymes.  The 
first  of  my  poetic  offspring  that  saw  the 
light,  was  a  burlesque  Lamentation  on  a 

quarrel  between  two  reverend  Calvinists, 
both  of  them  dramatis  personoe  in  my 
/To///  fair.  I  had  a  notion  myself,  that 
the  piece  had  some  merit ;  but  to  prevent 
the  worst,  I  gave  a  copy  of  it  to  a  friend 
who  was  very  fond  of  such  things,  and 
told  him  that  I  could  not  guess  who  was 
the  author  of  it,  but  that  I  thought  it 
pretty  clever.  With  a  certain  descrip- 
tion of  the  clergy,  as  well  as  laity,  it  met 
with  a  roar  of  applause.  Holy  Willie's 
Prayer  next  made  its  appearance,  and 
alarmed  the  kirk-session  so  much,  that 
they  held  several  meetings  to  look  over 
their  spiritual  artillery,  if  haply  any  of  it 
might  be  pointed  ag'ainst  profane  rhymers. 
Unluckily  for  me,  my  wanderings  led  me 
on  another  side,  within  point-blank  shot 
of  their  heaviest  metal.  This  is  the  un- 
fortunate story  that  gave  rise  to  rny  print- 
ed poem,  The  Lament.  This  was  a  most 
melancholy  affair,  which  I  cannot  yet  bear 
to  reflect  on,  and  had  very  nearly  given  me 
one  or  two  of  the  principal  qualifications 
for  a  place  among  those  who  have  lost 
the  chart,  and  mistaken  the  reckoning  of 
Rationality.*  I  gave  up  my  part  of  the 
farm  to  my  brother ;  in  truth  it  was  only 
nominally  mine ;  and  made  what  little 
preparation  was  in  my  power  for  Jamaica. 
But  before  leaving  my  native  country  for 
ever,  I  resolved  to  publish  my  poems.  I 
weighed  my  productions  as  impartially  as 
was  in  my  power ;  I  thought  they  had 
merit ;  and  it  was  a  delicious  idea  that  I 
should  be  called  a  clever  fellow,  even 
though  it  should  never  reach  my  ears — 
a  poor  negro  driver ; — or  perhaps  a  vic- 
tim to  that  inhospitable  clime,  and  gone 
to  the  world  of  spirits  !  I  can  truly  say, 
that  pauvre  inconnu  as  I  then  was,  I  had 
pretty  nearly  as  high  an  idea  of  myself 
and  of  my  works  as  I  have  at  this  mo- 
ment, when  the  public  has  decided  in 
their  favour.  It  ever  was  my  opinion, 
that  the  mistakes  and  blunders,  both  in 
a  rational  and  religious  point  of  view,  of 
which  we  see  thousands  daily  guilty,  are 
owing  to  their  ignorance  of  themselves. 
To  know  myself  had  been  all  along  my 
constant  study.  T  weighed  myself  alone; 
I  balanced  myself  with  others;  I  watch- 
ed every  mean-  of  information,  to  see  how 
much  ground  I  occupied  as  a  man  and  as 
a  poet  ;  I  studied  assiduously  Nature's 
design  in  my  formation — where  the  lights 

*  An  explanation  of  this  will  be  found  hereafter. 


16 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


and  shades  in  my  character  were  intend- 
ed. I  was  pretty  confident  my  poems 
would  meet  with  some  applause ;  but,  at 
the  worst  the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  would 
deafen  the  voice  of  censure,  and  the  no- 
velty of  West  Indian  scenes  make  me 
forget  neglect.  I  threw  off  six  hundred 
copies,  of  which  I  had  got  subscriptions 
for  about  three  hundred  and  fifty. — My 
vanity  was  highly  gratified  by  the  recep- 
tion I  met  with  from  the  public;  and  lie- 
sides  I  pocketed,  all  expenses  deducted, 
nearly  twenty  pounds.  This  sum  came 
very  seasonably,  as  I  was  thinking  of  in- 
denting myself,  for  want  of  money  to  pro- 
cure my  passage.  As  soon  as  I  was  mas- 
ter of  nine  guineas,  the  price  of  wafting 
me  to  the  torrid  zone,  I  took  a  steerage- 
passage  in  the  first  ship  that  was  to  sail 
from  the  Clyde  ;  for, 

"  Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind."' 

"I  had  been  for  some  days  skulking 
from  covert  to  covert,  under  all  the  ter- 
rors of  a  jail;  as  some  ill-advised  people 
had  uncoupled  the  merciless  pack  of  the 
law  at  my  heels.  I  had  taken  the  fare- 
well of  my  few  friends ;  my  chest  was  on 
the  road  to  Greenock ;  I  had  composed 
the  last  song  I  should  ever  measure  in 
Caledonia,  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering 

fast,  when  a  letter  from  Dr.  Blacklock, 
to  a  friend  of  mine,  overthrew  all  my 
schemes,  by  opening  new  prospects  to  my 
poetic  ambition.  The  Doctor  belonged 
to  a  set  of  critics,  for  whose  applause  I 
had  not  dared  to  hope.  His  opinion  that 
T  would  meet  with  encouragement  in 
Edinburgh  for  a  second  edition,  fired  mo 
so  much,  that  away  I  posted  for  that  city, 
without  a  single  acquaintance,  or  a  sin- 
gle letter  of  introduction.  The  baneful 
star  which  had  so  long  shed  its  blasting 
influence  in  my  zenith,  for  once  made  a 
revolution  to  the  nadir  ;  and  a  kind  Pro- 
vidence placed  me  under  the  patronage 
of  one  of  the  noblest  of  men,  the  Earl  of 
Glencairn.     Oviblie  moi,  Grand  Dieu,  si 

jamais  je  Voublie  ! 

"  I  need  relate  no  farther.  At  Edin- 
burgh I  was  in  a  new  world  ;  T  mingled 
among  many. classes  of  men,  but  all  of 
them  new  to  me,  and  I  was  all  attention 
to  catch  the  characters  and  the  manners 
living  as  they  rise.  Whether  I  have  pro- 
fited, time  will  show. 


"  My  most  respectful  compliments  to 


Miss  W.  Her  very  elegant  ami  friendly 
letter  I  cannot  answer  at  present,  as  my 
presence  is  requisite  in  Edinburgh,  and  I 
set  out  to-morrow."* 


At  the  period  of  our  poet's  death,  his 
brother,  Gilbert  Bums,  was  ignorant  that 
he  had  himself  written  the  foregoing  nar- 
rative  of  his  life  while  in  Ayrshire;  and 
having  been  applied  to  by  Mrs.  Dunlop 
for  some  memoirs  of  his  brother,  he  com- 
plied with  her  request  in  a  letter,  from 
which  the  following  narrative  is  chiefly 
extracted.  When  Gilbert  Burns  after- 
wards saw  the  letter  of  our  poet  to  Dr. 
Moore,  he  made  some  annotations  upon 
it,  which  shall  be  noticed  as  we  proceed. 

Robert  Burns  was  born  on  the  25th  day 
of  January,  1759,  in  a  small  house  about 
two  miles  from  the  town  of  Ayr,  and  wit  h- 
in  a  few  hundred  yards  of  Alloway  church, 
which  his  poem  of  Tarn  o'  Shanter  has 
rendered  immortal.f  The  name  which 
the  poet  and  his  brother  modernized  into 
Burns,  was  originally  Barnes,  or  Burness. 
Their  father,  William  Burnes,  was  the 
son  of  a  farmer  in  Kincardineshire,  and 
had  received  the  education  common  in 
Scotland  to  persons  in  his  condition  of  life ; 
he  could  read  and  write,  and  had  some 
knowledge  of  arithmetic.  His  family 
having  fallen  into  reduced  circumstances, 
he  was  compelled  to  leave  his  home  in  his 
nineteenth  year,  and  turned  his  steps  to- 
wards the  south  in  quest  of  a  livelihood. 
The  same  necessity  attended  his  elder 
brother  Robert.  "I  have  often  heard 
my  father,"  says  Gilbert  Burns,  in  his 
letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  "  describe  the  an- 
guish of  mind  ho  felt  when  they  parted 
on  the  top  of  a  hill  on  the  confines  of  their 
native  place,  each  going  off  his  several 
way  in  search  of  new  adventures,  and 
scarcely  knowing  whither  he  went.  My 
father  undertook  to  act  as  a  gardener, 

*  There  are  various  copies  of  this  letter  in  the  BUr 
thor's  hand- writing;  and  one  of  these,  evidently  cor- 
rected, is  in  the  hook  in  which  he  had  copied  several 
of  his  letters.  This  has  been  used  for  the  press,  with 
some  omissions,  and  one  slight  alteration  suggested  i>y 
Gilbert  Burns. 

f  This  house  is  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road 
from  Ayr  to  tyaybolc,  which  forms  a  part  of  the  road 
from  Glasgow  to  Port  Patrick.  When  the  poet'B  fa- 
ttier afterwards  removed  to  Tarbolton  parish,- be  sold 
his  leasehold  rinht  in  this,  house,  and  a  few  acres  of 
land  adjoining,  to  ihu  corporation  of  shoemakers  in  Ayr. 
It  is  now  a  country  alc-houue. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS 


17 


and  shaped  his    course  to  Edinburgh, 

where  he  wrought  hard  when  lie  could  get 
work,  passing  through  a  variety  of  dilfi- 
culties.  Still,  however,  he  endeavoured 
to  span1  something  for  the  support  of  his 

'  parents  :  and  1  recollect  he 
him  mention  his  having  sent  a  bank-note 
for  this  purpose,  when  money  of  that  kind 
was  so  scarce  in  Kincardineshire,  that 
they  scarcely  knew  how  to  employ'  it 
when  it  arrived."  From  Edinburgh, 
William  Burnos  passed  westward  into 
the  county  of  Ayr,  where  he  engaged 
himself  as  a  gardener  to  the  laird  of' Fairly, 
with  whom  he  lived  two  years;  then 
changing  his  service  for  that  of  Crawford 
of  Doonside.  At  length,  being  desirous 
of  settling  in  life,  he  took  a  perpetual 
lease  of  seven  acres  of  land  from  Dr. 
Campbell,  physician  in  Ayr,  with  the 
view  of  commencing  nurseryman  and 
public  gardener  ;  and  having  built  a  house 
upon  it  with  his  own  hands,  married,  in 
December  1757,  Agnes  Brown,  the  mo- 
ther of  our  poet,  who  still  survives.  The 
first  fruit  of  this  marriage  was  Robert, 
the  subject  of  these  memoirs,  born  on  the 
25th  of  January,  1759,  as  has  already 
been  mentioned.  Before  William  Barnes 
had  made  much  progress  in  preparing  his 
nursery,  he  was  withdrawn  from  that  un- 
dertaking by  Mr.  Ferguson,  who  pur- 
chased, the  estate  of  Doonholm,  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood,  and  engaged 
him  as  his  gardener  and  overseer;  and 
this  was  his  situation  when  our  poet 
was  born.  Though  in  the  service  of  Mr. 
Ferguson,  he  lived  in  his  own  house,  his 
i  managing  her  family  and  her  little 
dairy,  which  consisted  sometimes  of  two, 
sometimes  of  three  milch  cows  ;  and  this 
state  of  unambitious  content  continued 
till  the  year  176G.  His  son  Robert  was 
by  him  in  his  sixth  year,  to  a  school 
at  Alloway  Miln,  about  a  mile  distant, 
taught  by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Camp- 
bell;  but  this  teacher  being  in  a  few 
months  appointed  master  of  the  work- 
house at  Ayr,  William  Burnes,  in  con- 
junction with  some  other  heads  of  fami- 
lies, engaged  John  Murdoch  in  his  stead. 
The  education  of  our  poet,  and  of  his 
Drother  Gilbert,  was  in  common  ;  and  of 
their  proficiency  under  Mr.  Murdoch,  we 
have  the  following  account  :  "  With  him 
we  learnt  to  read  English  tolerably  well,* 
and  to  write  a  little.  He  taught  us,  too, 
tin'  English  grammar.  T  was  too  young 
to  profit  much  from  his  I  •  grain- 

*  Letter  from  Gilbert  Burna  to  Mrs.  Dunlop. 


mar;  but  Robert  made  some  proficiency 
in    it — a   circumstance   of   considerable 

lit  in  the  unfolding  of  his  genius  and 
character;  as  he  soon  became  remarkable 
for  the  fluency  and  correctness  ofhisex- 

ion,  and  read  the  few  books  that 
in  his  way  with  much  pleasure  and 
improvement;  for  even  then  he  was  a 
nadir  when  he  could  get  a  book.  Mur- 
doch,  whose  lihrary  at  that  time  had  no 
great  variety  in  it,  lent  him  The  Life  of 
Hannibal,  which  was  the  first  hook  he 
read  (the  schoolhook  excepted,)  and  al- 
most the  only  one  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  reading  while  he  was  at  school:  for 
The  Life  if  Wallace,  which  he  classes 
with  it  in  one  of  his  letters  to  you,  he  did 
not  see  for  some  years  afterwards,  when 
he  borrowed  it  from  the  blacksmith  who 
shod  our  horses." 

It  appears  that  William  Burnes  ap- 
proved himself  greatly  in  the  service  of 
Mr.  Ferguson,  by  his  intelligence,  indus- 
try, and  integrity.  In  consequence  of 
this  with  a  view  of  promoting  his  inter- 
est, Mr.  Ferguson  leased  him  a  farm,  of 
which  we  have  the  following  account  : 

"  The  farm  was  upwards  of  seventy 
acres*  (between  eighty  and  ninety  English 
statute  measure,)  the  rent  of  which  was  to 
be  forty  pounds  annually  for  the  first  six 
years,  and  afterwirds  forty-five  pounds. 
My  father  endeavoured  to  sell  his  lease- 
hold property,  for  the  purpose  of  stocking 
this  farm,  but  at  that  time  was  unable, 
and  Mr.  Ferguson  lent  him  a  hundred 
pounds  for  that  purpose.  He  removed  to 
his  new  situation  at  Whitsuntide,  1766. 
It  was,  I  think,  not  above  two  year-s  after 
this,  that  Murdoch,  our  tutor  and  friend, 
left  this  part  of  the  country  ;  and  there 
being  no  school  near  us,  and  our  little 
services  being  useful  on  the  farm,  my 
father  undertook  to  teach  us  arithmetic 
in  the  winter  evenings  by  candle-light  ; 
and  in  this  way  my  two  eldest  sisters  got 
all  the  education  they  received.  I  remem- 
ber a  circumstance  that  happened  at  this 
time,  which,  though  trifling  in  itself,  is 
fresh  in  my  memory,  and  may  serve  to 
illustrate  the  early  character  of  my  bro- 
ther. Murdoch  came  to  spend  a  night 
with  us,  and  to  take  his  leave  when  he 
was  about  to  go  into  Carrick.  He 
brought  us,  as  a  present  and  memorial  of 
him,    a   small    compendium    of    English 

♦Letter  of  Gilbert  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  The 
Dame  of  inis  farm  i.<  Mourn  Oliphant,  in  Ayr  parish. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


Grammar,  and  the  tragedy  of  Titus  An- 
dronicus,  and  by  way  of  passing  the 
evening,  he  began  to  read  the  play  aloud. 
We  were  all  attention  for  some  time,  till 
presently  the  whole  party  was  dissolved 
in  tears.  A  female  in  the  play  (I  have 
but  a  confused  remembrance  of  it)  had 
her  hands  chopt  off,  and  her  tongue  cut 
out,  and  then  was  insultingly  desired  to  call 
for  water  to  wash  her  hands.  At  this,  in 
an  agony  of  distress,  we  with  one  voice  de- 
sired he  would  read  no  more.  My  father 
observed,  that  if  we  would  not  hear  it  out, 
it  would  be  needless  to  leave  the  play  with 
us.  Robert  replied,  that  if  it  was  left  he 
wovdd  burn  it.  My  father  was  going  to 
chide  him  for  this  ungrateful  return  to 
his  tutor's  kindness  ;  but  Murdoch  inter- 
fered, declaring  that  he  liked  to  see  so 
much  sensibility  ;  and  he  left  The  School 
for  Love,  a  comedy  (translated  I  think 
from  the  French,)  in  its  place."* 

"  Nothing,"  continues  Gilbert  Burns, 
"  could  be  more  retired  than  our  general 
manner  of  living  at  Mount  Oliphant  ;  we 
rarely  saw  any  body  but  the  members  of 
our  own  family.  There  were  no  boys  of 
our  own  age,  or  near  it,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Indeed  the  greatest  part  of 
the  land  in  the  vicinity  was  at  that  time 
possessed  by  shopkeepers,  and  people  of 
that  stamp,  who  had  retired  from  busi- 
ness, or  who  kept  their  farm  in  the  coun- 
try, at  the  same  time  that  they  followed 
business  in  town.  My  father  was  for 
some  time  almost  the  only  companion  we 
had.  He  conversed  familiarly  on  all  sub- 
jects with  us,  as  if  we  had  been  men;  and 
was  at  great  pains,  while  we  accompanied 
him  in  the  labours  of  the  farm,  to  lead 

•It  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  poet  was  only  nine 
years  of  age  and  the  relator  of  this  incident  under  eight, 
at  the  time  it  happened.  The  effect  was  very  natural 
in  children  of  sensibility  at  their  age.  At  a  more  ma- 
ture period  of  the  judgment,  such  absurd  representa- 
tions are  calculated  rather  to  produce  disgust  or  laugh- 
ter, than  tears.  The  scene  to  which  Gilbert  Burns  al- 
ludes, opens  thus : 

Titus  Jlndronicus,  Act  II.  Scene  5. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Chiron,  with  Lavinia  ravished, 
her  hands  cut  off,  and  her  tongue  cut  out. 

Why  is  this  ^illy  play  still  printed  as  Shakespeare's, 
against  the  opinion  of  all  the  best  critics  ?  The  bard  of 
Avon  was  guilty  of  manv  extravagances,  but  lie  al- 
ways performed  what  he  intended  to  perforin.  I'li.-u 
he  ever  excited  in  ;»  British  mind  (for  the  Frem  h  cri 
ties  must  he  set  aside)  disgust  or  ridicule,  where  hi 
mi  ml  to  have  awakened  pity  or  horror,  is  what  will 
nut  be  imputed  to  that  master  of  the  passions. 


the  conversation  to  such  subjects  as  might 
tend  to  increase  our  knowledge,  or  con- 
firm us  in  virtuous  habits.  He  borrowed 
Salmon's  Geographical  Grammar  for  us, 
and  endeavoured  to  make  us  acquainted 
with  the  situation  and  history  of  the  dif- 
ferent countries  in  the  wTorld  ;  while  from 
a  book-society  in  Ayr,  he  procured  for  us 
the  reading  of  Derham's  Physico  and 
Astro-Theology,  and  Ray's  Wisdom  of  God 
in  the  Creation,  to  give  us  some  idea  of 
astronomy  and  natural  history.  Robert 
read  all  these  books  with  an  avidity  and 
industry,  scarcely  to  be  equalled.  My 
father  had  been  a  subscriber  to  Stack- 
house's  History  of  the  Bible  then  lately 
published  by  James  Meuross  in  Kilmar- 
nock :  from  this  Robert  collected  a  com- 
petent knowledge  of  history ;  for  no  book 
was  so  voluminous  as  to  slacken  his  in- 
dustry, or  so  antiquated  as  to  damp  his 
researches.  A  brother  of  my  mother, 
who  had  lived  with  us  some  time,  and 
had  learnt  some  arithmetic  by  winter 
evening's  candle,  went  into  a  bookseller's 
shop  in  Ayr,  to  purchase  The  Ready  Rec- 
koner or  Tradesman's  sure  Guide,  and  a 
book  to  teach  him  to  write  letters.  Luck- 
ily, in  place  of  The  Complete  Letter-Wri- 
ter, he  got  by  mistake  a  small  collection 
of  letters  by  the  most  eminent  writers, 
with  a  few  sensible  directions  for  attain- 
ing an  easy  epistolary  style.  This  book 
was  to  Robert  of  the  greatest  conse- 
quence. It  inspired  him  with  a  strong 
desire  to  excel  in  letter-writing,  while  it 
furnished  him  with  models  by  some  of 
the  first  writers  in  our  language. 

"My  brother  was  about  thirteen  or 
fourteen,  when  my  father,  regretting  that 
we  wrote  so  ill,  sent  us,  week  about, 
during  a  summer  quarter,  to  the  parish 
school  of  Dalrymple,  which,  though  be- 
tween two  and  three  miles  distant,  was 
the  nearest  to  us,  that  we  might  have  an 
opportunity  of.  remedying  this  defect. 
About  this  time  a  bookish  acquaintance 
of  my  father's  procured  us  a  reading  of 
two  volumes  of  Richardson's  Pamela, 
which  was  the  first  novel  we  read,  and 
the  only  part  of  Richardson's  works  my 
brother  was  acquainted  with  till  towards 
the  period  of  his  commencing  author. 
Till  that  time  too  he  remained  unac- 
quainted with  Fielding,  with  Smollet, 
(two  volumes  of  Ferdinand  ( 'mini  Fathom, 
and  two  volumes  of  Peregrine  Pickle  ex- 
cepted,) \\  ith  Humi  ,  w  ith  Robertson,  and 
almost  all  our  authors  of  eminence  of 
the  later  times.     I  recollect  indeed  my 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


19 


father  borrowed  a  volume  of  English  his- 
tory from  Mr.  Hamilton  of  Bourl  reehjll's 

gardener.  It  treated  of  the  reign  of 
James  the  First,  and  his  unfortunate  son, 
Chailcs,  hut.  1  do  not  know  who  was  the 
author;  all  that  1  remember  of  it  is  some- 
thing of  Charles's  conversation  with  his 
children.  About  this  time  Murdoch,  our 
former  teacher,  after havingbeeh  iu  differ- 
ent places  in  the  country, a  ml  having  taught 
a  school  some  time  in  Dumfries,  came  to  lie 
the  established  teacher  of  the  English  lan- 
guage in  Ayr,  a  circumstance  of  considera- 
ble consequence  to  us.  The  remembrance 
of  my  father's  former  friendship,  and  his 
attachment  to  my  brother,  made  him  do 
every  thing  in  his  power  for  our  improve- 
ment. He  sent  us  Pope's  works,  and 
some  other  poetry,  the  first  that  we  had 
an  opportunity  of  reading,  excepting 
what  is  contained  in  The  English  Collec- 
tion, and  in  the  volume  of  The  Edinburgh 
Magazine  for  1772;  excepting  also  those 
excellent  new  songs  that  are  hawked  about 
the  country  in  baskets,  or  exposed  on 
stalls  in  the  streets. 

"  The  summer  after  we  had  been  at 
Dalrymple  school,  my  father  sent  Robert 
to  Ayr,  to  revise  his  English  grammar, 
with  his  former  teacher.  He  had  been 
there  only  one  week,  when  he  was  obliged 
to  return  to  assist  at  the  harvest.  When 
the  harvest  was  over,  he  went  back  to 
school,  where  he  remained  two  weeks  ; 
and  this  completes  the  account  of  his 
school  education,  excepting  one  summer 
quarter,  some  time  afterwards,  that  he 
attended  the  parish  school  of  Kirk-Os- 
wald, (where  he  lived  with  a  brother  of 
my  mother's,)  to  learn  surveying. 

"  During  the  two  last  weeks  that  he 
was  with  Murdoch,  he  himself  was  en- 
gaged  in  learning  French,  and  he  com- 
municated the  instructions  he  received  to 
my  brother,  who,  when  he  returned, 
brought  home  with  him  a  French  diction- 
ary  and  grammar,  and  the  Adventures  qf 
Telemachus  in  the  original.  In  a  little 
while,  by  the  assistance  of  these  books, 
lie  had  acquired  such  a  knowledge  of  the 
language,  as  to  read  and  understand  any 
French  author  in  prose.  This  was  con- 
sidered as  a  sort  of  prodigy,  and  through 
the  medium  of  Murdoch,  procured  him 
the  acquaintance  of  several  lads  in  Ayr, 
who  were  at  that  time  gabbling  French, 
and  the  notice  of  some  families,  particu- 
larly that  of  Dr.  Malcolm,  where  a  know- 
ledge of  French  was  a  recommendation. 


"  Observing  the  facility  with  which  he 
had  acquired  the  French  language,  Mr. 
Robinson  the  established  writing-master 
in  Ayr,  and  Mr.  Murdoch's  particular 
friend,  having  himself  acquired  a  consi- 
derable  knowledge  of  the  Latin  language 
by  his  own  industry,  without  ever  having 
learnt  it  at  school,  advised  Robert,  to 
make  the  same  attempt,  promising  him 
every  assistance  in  his  power.  Agreea- 
bly to  this  advice,  he  purchased  The  liu- 
diments  of  the  Latin  Tongue,  but  finding 
this  study  dry  and  uninteresting,  it  was 
quickly  laid  aside.  He  frequently  re- 
turned to  his  Rudiments  on  any  little  cha- 
grin or  disappointment,  particularly  in 
his  love  affairs  ;  but  the  Latin  seldom 
predominated  more  than  a  day  or  two 
at  a  time,  or  a  week  at  most.  Observ- 
ing himself  the  ridicule  that  would  at- 
tach to  this  sort  of  conduct  if  it  were 
known,  he  made  two  or  three  humorous 
stanzas  on  the  subject,  which  I  cannot 
now  recollect,  but  they  all  ended, 

"  So  I'll  to  my  Latin  again." 

"  Thus  you  see  Mr.  Murdoch  was  a. 
principal  means  of  my  brother's  improve- 
ment. Worthy  man  ;  though  foreign  to 
my  present  purpose,  I  cannot  take  leave 
of  him  without  tracing  his  future  history. 
He  continued  for  some  years  a  respected 
and  useful  teacher  at  Ayr,  till  one  even- 
ing that  he  had  been  overtaken  in  liquor, 
he  happened  to  speak  somewhat  disre- 
spectfully of  Dr.  Dalrymple,  the  parish 
minister,  who  had  not  paid  him  that  at- 
tention to  which  he  thought  himself  en- 
titled. In  Ayr  he  might  as  well  have 
spoken  blasphemy.  He  found  it  proper 
to  give  up  his  appointment.  He  went  to 
London,  where  he  still  lives,  a  private 
teacher  of  French.  He  has  been  a  con- 
siderable time  married,  and  keeps  a  shop 
of  stationary  wares. 

"The  father  of  Dr.  Patterson,  now 
physician  at  Ayr,  was,  I  believe  a  native 
of  Aberdeenshire,  and  was  one  of  the  es- 
tablished teachers  in  Ayr,  when  my  fa- 
ther settled  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  ear- 
ly recognized  my  father  as  a  fellow  native  of 
the  north  of  Scotland,  and  a  certain  de- 
gree of  intimacv  subsisted  between  them 
during  Mr.  Patterson's  life.  After  his 
death"  his  widow,  who  is  a  very  genteel 
woman,  and  of  great  worth,  delighted  in 
doing  what  she  thought  her  husband 
would  have  wished  to  have  done,  and  as- 
siduously kept  up  her  attentions  to  all  his 


20 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


acquaintance.  She  kept  alive  the  inti- 
macy with  our  family,  by  frequently  in- 
viting my  father  and  mother  to  her  house 
on  Sundays,  when  she  met  them  at  church. 

"  When  she  came  to  know  my  bro- 
ther's  passion  for  books,  she  kindly  offer- 
ed us  the  use  of  her  husband's  library, 
and  from  her  we  got  the  Spectator,  Pope's 
Translation  of  Homer,  and  several  other 
books  that  were  of  use  to  us.  Mount 
Oliphant,  the  farm  my  father  possessed 
in  the  parish  of  Ayr,  is  almost  the  very 
poorest  soil  I  know  of  in  a  state  of  culti- 
vation. A  stronger  proof  of  this  I  can- 
not give,  than  that,  notwithstanding  the 
extraordinary  rise  in  the  value  of  lands  in 
Scotland,  it  was  after  a  considerable  sum 
laid  out  in  improving  it  by  the  proprietor, 
let  a  few  years  ago  five  pounds  per  an- 
num lower  than  the  rent  paid  for  it  by 
my  father  thirty  years  ago.  My  father, 
in  consequence  of  this,  soon  came  into 
difficulties,  which  were  increased  by  the 
loss  of  several  of  his  cattle  by  accidents 
and  disease. — To  the  bufferings  of  mis- 
fortune, we  could  only  oppose  hard  la- 
bour, and  the  most  rigid  economy.  We 
lived  very  sparing.  For  several  years 
butcher's  meat  was  a  stranger  in  the 
house,  while  all  the  members  of  the  fami- 
ly exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  of 
their  strength,  and  rather  beyond  it,  in 
the  labours  of  the  farm.  My  brother,  at 
the  age  of  thirteen,  assisted  in  thrashing 
the  crop  of  corn,  and  at  fifteen  was  the 
principal  labourer  on  the  farm,  for  we  had 
no  hired  servant,  male  or  female  The  an- 
guish of  mind  we  felt  at  our  tender  years, 
under  these  straits  and  difficulties,  was 
very  great.  To  think  of  our  father  grow- 
ing old  (for  he  was  now  above  fifty,)  bro- 
ken down  with  the  long  continued  fatigues 
of  his  life,  with  a  wife  and  five  other  chil- 
dren, and  in  a  declining  state  of  circum- 
stances, these  reflections  produced  in  my 
brother's  mind  and  mine  sensations  of  the 
deepest  distress.  I  doubt  not  but  the  hard 
labour  and  sorrow  of  this  period  of  his 
life,  was  in  a  great  measure  the  cause  of 
that  depression  of  spirits  with  which  Ro- 
bert was  so  often  afflicted  through  his 
whole  life  afterwards.  At  this  time  he 
was  almost  constantly  afflicted  in  the  even- 
ings with  a  dull  head-ache,  which  at  a  fu- 
ture period  of  his  life,  wafl  exchanged  for 

a  palpitation  of  the  heart,  am!  a  threat- 
ening of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  his 
bed  in  the  night-time: 

"  By  a  stipulation  in  my  father's  lease, 


he  had  a  right  to  throw  it  up,  if  lie  thought 
proper,  at  the  end  of  every  sixth  year. 
He  attempted  to  fix  himself  in  a  better 
farm  at  the  end  of  the  first  six  years,  but 
failing  in  that  attempt,  he  continued 
where  he  was  for  six  years  more.  He 
then  took  the  farm  of  Lochlea,  of  130 
acres,  at  the  rent  of  twenty  shillings  an 
acre,  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  of  Mr. 

,  then  a  merchant  in  Ayr,  and  now 

(1797,)  a  merchant  in  Liverpool.  He  re- 
moved to  this  farm  on  Whitsunday,  1777, 
and  possessed  it  only  seven  years.  No 
writing  had  ever  been  made  out  of  the 
conditions  of  the  lease  ;  a  misunderstand- 
ing took  place  respecting  them  ;  the  sub- 
jects in  dispute  were  submitted  to  arbi- 
tration, and  the  decision  involved  my  fa- 
ther's affairs  in  ruin.  He  lived  to  know 
of  this  decision,  but  not  to  see  any  exe- 
cution in  consequence  of  it.  He  died  on 
the  13th  of  February,  1784. 

"  The  seven  years  we  lived  in  Tarbol- 
ton parish  (extending  from  the  seven 
teenth  to  the  twenty-fourth  of  my  bro- 
ther's age,)  were  not  marked  by  much 
literary  improvement  ;  but,  during  this 
time,  the  foundation  was  laid  of  certain 
habits  in  my  brother's  character,  which 
afterwards  became  but  too  prominent, 
and  which  malice  and  envy  have  taken 
delight  to  enlarge  on.  Though  when 
young  he  was  bashful  and  awkward  in  his 
intercourse  with  women,  yet  when  he 
approached  manhood,  his  attachment  to 
their  society  became  very  strong,  and  he 
was  constantly  the  victim  of  some  fair 
enslaver.  The  symptoms  of  his  passion 
were  often  such  as  nearly  to  equal  those 
of  the  celebrated  Sappho.  I  never  indeed 
knew  that  he  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away; 
but  the  agitations  of  his  mind  and  body 
exceeded  any  thing  of  the  kind  I  ever 
knew  in  real  life.  He  had  always  a  par- 
ticular jealousy  of  people  who  were  richer 
than  himself,  or  who  had  more  conse- 
quence in  life.  His  love,  therefore,  rare- 
lv  settled  on  persons  of  this  description. 
When  he  selected  any  one  out  of  the 
sovereignty  of  his  good  pleasure,  to  whom 
he  should  pay  his  particular  attention,  she 
was  instantly  invested  with  a  sufficient 
stock  of  charms,  out  of  a  plentiful  store 
of  his  own  imagination ;  and  there  was 
often  a  great  dissimilitude  between  his 
fair  captivator,  as  she  appeared  to  others, 
and  as  she  seemed  when  invested  with 
the  attributes  he  gave  her.  One  gene- 
rally reigned  paramount  in  his  affections 
but  as  Yorick's  affections  flowed  out  to- 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


21 


ward  Madam  dc  L —  at  the  remise  door, 
while  the  eternal  vows  of  Eliza  were 
upon  him,  so  Robert  was  frequently  en- 
countering  other  attractions,  which  form- 
ed so  many  underplots  in  the  drama  of 
his  love.  As  these  connexions  were  go- 
verned by  the  strictest  rules  of  virtue  and 
modesty  (from  which  he  never  deviated 
till  he  reached  his  23d  year,)  he  became 
anxious  to  be  in  a  situation  to  marry. 
This  was  not  likely  to  be  soon  the  case 
while  he  remained  a  farmer,  as  the  stock- 
ing of  a  farm  required  a  sum  of  money 
he  had  no  probability  of  being  master  of 
for  a  great  while.  He  began,  therefore, 
to  think  of  trying  some  other  line  of  life. 
He  and  I  had  for  several  years  taken  land 
of  my  father  for  the  purpose  of  raising 
flax  on  our  own  account.  In  the  course 
of  selling  it,  Robert  began  to  think  of 
turning  flax-dresser,  both  as  being  suita- 
ble to  his  grand  view  of  settling  in  life, 
and  as  subservient  to  the  flax  raising.  He 
accordingly  wrought  at  the  business  of  a 
flax-dresser  in  Irvine  for  six  months,  but 
abandoned  it  at  that  period,  as  neither 
agreeing  with  his  health  nor  inclination. 
In  Irvine  he  had  contracted  some  acquaint- 
ance of  a  freer  manner  of  thinking  and 
living  than  he  had  been  used  to,  whose 
society  prepared  him  for  overleaping  the 
bounds  of  rigid  virtue  which  had  hitherto 
restrained  him.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
period  under  review  (in  his  24th  year,) 
and  soon  after  his  father's  death,  he  was 
furnished  with  the  subject  of  his  epistle 
to  John  Ranklin.  During  this  period 
also  he  became  a  freemason,  which  was 
his  first  introduction  to  the  life  of  a  boon 
companion.  Yet,  notwithstanding  these 
circumstances,  and  the  praise  he  has  be- 
stowed on  Scotch  drink  (which  seems  to 
hnve  misled  his  historians,)  I  do  not  re- 
collect, during  these  seven  years,  nor  till 
towards  the  end  of  his  commencing  au- 
thor (when  his  growing  celebrity  occa- 
sioned his  being  often  in  company,)  to 
have  ever  seen  him  intoxicated ;  nor  was 
he  at  all  given  to  drinking.  A  stronger 
proof  of  the  general  sobriety  of  his  con- 
duct need  not  be  required  than  what  I  am 
about  to  give.  During  the  whole  of  the 
time  we  lived  in  the  farm  of  Lochlea  with 
my  father,  he  allowed  my  brother  and 
me  such  wages  for  our  labour  as  he  gave 
to  other  labourers,  as  a  part  of  which, 
every  article  of  our  clothing  manufactured 
in  the  family  was  regularly  accounted  for. 
When  my  father's  affairs  drew  near  a 
crisis,  Robert  and  I  took  the  farm  of 
Mossgiel,  consisting  of  118  acres,  at  the 


rent  of  901.  per  annum  (the  farm  on  which 
I  live  at  present,)  from  Mr.  Gavin  Ham- 
ilton, as  an  asylum  for  the  family  in  case 
of  the  worst.  It  was  stocked  by  the  pro- 
perty and  individual  savings  of  the  whole 
family,  and  was  a  joint  concern  among 
us.  Every  member  of  the  family  was 
allowed  ordinary  wages  for  the  labour  he 
performed  on  the  farm.  My  brother's 
allowance  and  mine  was  seven  pounds 
per  annum  each.  And  during  the  whole 
time  this  family  concern  lasted,  which 
was  for  four  years,  as  well  as  during  the 
preceding  period  at  Lochlea,  his  expenses 
never  in  any  one  year  exceeded  his  slen- 
der income.  As  I  was  entrusted  with  the 
keeping  of  the  family  accounts,  it  is  not 
possible  that  there  can  be  any  fallacy  in 
this  statement  in  my  brother's  favour. 
His  temperance  and  frugality  were  every 
thing  that  could  be  wished. 

"  The  farm  of  Mossgiel  lies  very  high, 
and  mostly  on  a  cold  wet  bottom.  The 
first  four  years  that  we  were  on  the  farm 
were  very  frosty,  and  the  spring  was  very 
late.  Our  crops  in  consequence  were 
very  unprofitable ;  and,  notwithstanding 
our  utmost  diligence  and  economy,  we 
found  ourselves  obliged  to  give  up  our 
bargain,  with  the  loss  of  a  considerable 
part  of  our  original  stock.  It  was  during 
these  four  years  that  Robert  formed  his 
connexion  with  Jean  Armour,  afterwards 
Mrs.Burns.  This  connexion  could  no  longer 
be  concealed,  about  the  time  we  came 
to  a  final  determination  to  quit  the  farm. 
Robert  durst  not  engage  with  his  family 
in  his  poor  unsettled  state,  but  was  anx- 
ious to  shield  his  partner,  by  every  means 
in  his  power,  from  the  consequence  of 
their  imprudence.  It  was  agreed  there- 
fore between  them,  that  they  should  make 
a  legal  acknowledgment  of  an  irregular 
and  private  marriage  ;  that  he  should  go 
to  Jamaica  to  push  his  fortune  !  and  that 
she  should  remain  with  her  father  till  it 
might  please  Providence  to  put  the  means 
of  supporting  a  family  in  his  power. 

"  Mrs.  Burns  was  a  great  favourite  of 
her  father's.  The  intimation  of  a  mar- 
riage was  the  first  suggestion  he  received 
of  her  real  situation.  He  was  in  the 
greatest  distress,  and  fainted  away.  The 
marriage  did  not  appear  to  him  to  make 
the  matter  better.  A  husband  in  Jamai- 
ca appeared  to  him  and  his  wife  little  bet- 
ter than  none,  and  an  effectual  bar  to  any 
other  prospects  of  a  settlement  in  life 
that  their  daughter  might   have.     They 


£2 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


therefore  expressed  a  wish  to  her,  that 
the  written  papers  which  respected  the 
marriage  should  be  cancelled,  and  thus 
the  marriage  rendered  void'.  In  her  me- 
lancholy state  she  felt  the  deepest  re- 
morse at  having  brought  such  heavy  af- 
fliction on  parents  that  loved  her  so  ten- 
derly, and  submitted  to  their  entreaties. 
Their  wish  was  mentioned  to  Robert. 
He  felt  the  deepest  anguish  of  mind.  He 
offered  to  stay  at  home  and  provide  for 
his  wife  and  family  in  the  best  manner 
that  his  daily  labours  could  provide  for 
them ;  that  being  the  only  means  in  his 
power.  Even  this  offer  they  did  not  ap- 
prove of;  for  humble  as  Miss  Armour's 
station  was,  and  great  though  her  impru- 
dence had  been,  she  still,  in  the  eyes  of 
her  partial  parents,  might  look  to  a  better 
connexion  than  that  with  my  friendless 
and  unhappy  brother,  at  that  time  without 
house  or  biding  place.  Robert  at  length 
consented  to  their  wishes ;  but  his  feelings 
on  this  occasion  were  of  the  most  dis- 
tracting nature :  and  the  impression  of 
sorrow  was  not  effaced,  till  by  a  regular 
marriage  they  were  indissolubly  united. 
In  the  state  of  mind  which  this  separa- 
tion produced,  he  wished  to  leave  the 
country  as  soon  as  possible,  and  agreed 
with  Dr.  Douglas  to  go  out  to  Jamaica 
as  an  assistant  overseer ;  or,  as  I  believe 
it  is  called,  a  book-keeper,  on  his  estate. 
As  he  had  not  sufficient  money  to  pay  his 
passage,  and  the  vessel  in  which  Dr. 
Douglas  was  to  procure  a  passage  for  him 
was  not  expected  to  sail  for  some  time, 
Mr.  Hamilton  advised  him  to  publish  his 
poems  in  the  mean  time  by  subscription, 
as  a  likely  way  of  getting  a  little  money, 
to  provide  him  more  liberally  in  necessa- 
ries for  Jamaica.  Agreeably  to  this  ad- 
vice, subscription  bills  were  printed  im- 
mediately, and  the  printing  was  com- 
menced at  Kilmarnock,  his  preparations 
going  on  at  the  same  time  for  his  voy- 
age. The  reception,  however,  which  his 
poems  met  with  in  the  world,  and  the 
friends  they  procured  him,  made  him 
change  his  resolution  of  going  to  Jamai- 
ca, and  he  was  advised  to  go  to  Edin- 
burgh to  publish  a  second  edition.  On 
his  return,  in  happier  circumstances,  he 
renewed  his  connexion  with  Mrs.  Burns, 
and  rendered  it  permanent  by  a  union  for 
life. 

"Thus,  Madam,  have  I  endeavoured 
to  give  you  a  simple  narrative  of  the  lead- 
ing circumstances  in  my  brother's  early 
life.     The  remaining   part   he    spent   in 


Edinburgh,  or  in  Dumfriesshire,  and  its 
incidents  are  as  well  known  to  you  as  to 
me.  His  genius  having  procured  him 
your  patronage  and  friendship,  this  gave 
rise  to  the  correspondence  between  you, 
in  which,  I  believe,  his  sentiments  were 
delivered  with  the  most  respectful,  but 
most  unreserved  confidence,  and  which 
only  terminated  with  the  last  days  of  his 
life." 


This  narrative  of  Gilbert  Burns  may 
serve  as  a  commentary  on  the  preceding 
sketch  of  our  poet's  life  by  himself.  It 
will  be  seen  that  the  distraction  of  mind 
which  he  mentions  {p.  16.)  arose  from  the 
distress  and  sorrow  in  which  he  had  in- 
volved his  future  wife. — The  whole  cir- 
cumstances attending  this  connexion  are 
certainly  of  a  very  singular  nature.* 

The  reader  will  perceive,  from  the 
foregoing  narrative,  how  much  the  chil- 
dren of  William  Burnes  were  indebted  to 
their  father,  who  was  certainly  a  man  of 
uncommon  talents ;  though  it  does  not 
appear  that  he  possessed  any  portion  of 
that  vivid  imagination  for  which  the  sub- 
ject of  these  memoirs  was  distinguished. 
In  page  13,  it  is  observed  by  our  poet, 
that  his  father  had  an  unaccountable  an- 
tipathy to  dancing-schools,  and  that  his 
attending  one  of  these  brought  on  him  his 
displeasure,  and  even  dislike.  On  this 
observation  Gilbert  has  made  the  follow- 
ing remark,  which  seems  entitled  to  im- 
plicit credit : — "  I  wonder  how  Robert 
could  attribute  to  our  father  that  lasting 
resentment  of  his  going  to  a  dancing- 
school  against  his  will,  of  which  he  was 
incapable.  I  believe  the  truth  was,  that 
he,  about  this  time  began  to  see  the  dan- 
gerous impetuosity  of  my  brother's  pas- 
sions, as  well  as  his  not  being  amenable 
to  counsel,  which  often  irritated  my  fa- 
t  her  ;  anil  which  he  would  naturally  think 
n  dancing-school  was  not  likely  to  correct. 
But  he  was  proud  of  Robert's  genius, 
which  he  bestowed  more  expense  in  cul- 
1iva1iiig  than  on  the  rest  of  the  family,  in 
the  instances  of  sending  him  to  Ayr  and 
Kirk-Oswald  schools;  and  he  was  greatly 
delighted  with  his  warmth  of  heart,  and 

*  In  page  16,  the  poet  mentions  his — "  skulking  from 
covert  to  covert,  umier  the  terror  of  a  jail."  The 
"pack  of  the  law"  was  "  uncoupled  at  his  heels,"  to 
oblige  him  to  find  security  for  ihe  maintenance  of  his 
twin  children,  whom  he  was  not  permitted  to  legiti- 
mate by  a  marriage  with  their  mother. 


THE  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


23 


his  conversational  powers.  lie  had  in- 
deed that  dislike  of  dancing-schools  which 
Robert  mentions;  bul  so  tar  overcame  it 
during  Robert's  first  month  of  attendance, 
that  he  allowed  all  the  rest  of  the  family 
thai  were  lit  for  it  to  accompany  him  du- 
ring the  second  month.  Robert  excelled 
in  dancing,  and  was  for  some  time  dis- 
tractedly fond  of  it." 

In  the  original  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  our 
poet  described  his  ancestors  as  "  renting 
lands  of  the  noble  Keiths  of  Marischal,  and 
as  having  had  the  honour  of  sharing  their 
fate."  "  I  do  not,"  continues  he,  "  use 
the  word  honour  with  any  reference  to 
political  principles  ;  loyal  and  disloyal,  I 
take  to  be  merely  relative  terms,  in  that 
ancient  and  formidable  court,  known  in 
this  country  by  the  name  of  Club-law, 
where  the  right  is  always  with  the  strong- 
est. But  those  who  dare  welcome  ruin, 
and  shake  hands  with  infamy,  for  what 
they  sincerely  believe  to  be  the  cause  of 
their  God,  or  their  king,  are,  as  Mark 
Antony  says  in  Shakespeare  of  Brutus  and 
Cassius,  honourable  hien.  I  mention  this 
circumstance  because  it  threw  my  father 
on  the  world  at  large." 

This  paragraph  has  been  omitted  in 
printing  the  letter,  at  the  desire  of  Gil- 
bert Burns  ;  and  it  would  have  been  un- 
necessary to  have  noticed  it  on  the  pre- 
sent, occasion,  had  not  several  manuscript 
copies  of  that  letter  been  in  circulation. 
"  I  do  not  know,"  observes  Gilbert  Burns, 
"  how  my  brother  could  be  misled  in  the 
account  he  lias  given  of  the  Jacobitism  of 
his  ancestors. — I  believe  the  earl  Maris- 
chal forfeited  his  title  and  estate  in  1715, 
before  my  father  was  born  ;  and  among 
a  collection  of  parish  certificates  in  his 
possession,  I  have  read  one,  stating  that 
the  bearer  had  no  concern  in  the  late 
•wicked  rebellion."  On  the  information  of 
one,  who  knew  William  Burnes  soon  af- 
ter he  arrived  in  the  county  of  Ayr,  it 
may  be  mentioned,  that  a  report,  did  pre- 
vail, that  he  had  taken  the  field  with  the 
young  Chevalier;  a  report  which  the  cer- 
tificate mentioned  by  his  son  was,  perhaps, 
intended  to  counteract.  Strangers  from 
the  north,  settling  in  the  low  country  of 
Scotland, were  in  those  days  liable  to  sus- 
picions of  having  been,  in  the  familiar 
phrase  of  the  country,  "  Out  in  the  forty- 
live,  "  (1745)  especially  when  they  had 
any  stateliness  or  reserve  about  them,  as 
was  the  case  with  William  Burnes.  It 
may  easily  be  conceived,  that  our  poet 


would  cherish  the  belief  of  his  father's 
having  been  engaged  in  the  daring  enter- 
prise of  Prince  Charles  Edward.  The 
generous  attachment,  the  heroic  valour, 
and  the  final  misfortunes  of  the  adherents 
of  the  house  of  Stewart,  touched  with 
sympathy  his  youthful  and  ardent  mind, 
and  influenced  his  original  political  opi- 
nions.* 

The  father  of  our  poet  is  described  by 
one  who  knew  him  towards  the  latter  end 
of  his  life,  as  above  the  common  stature, 
thin,  and  bent  with  labour.  His  counte- 
nance was  serious  and  expressive,  and 
the  scanty  locks  on  his  head  were  gray. 
He  was  of  a  religious  turn  of  mind,  and, 
as  is  usual  among  the  Scottish  peasantry, 
a  good  deal  conversant  in  speculative 
theology.  There  is  in  Gilbert's  hands  a 
little  manual  of  religious  belief,  in  the 
form  of  a  dialogue  between  a  father  and 
his  son,  composed  by  him  for  the  use  of 
his  children,  in  which  the  benevolence  of 
his  heart  seems  to  have  led  him  to  soften 
the  rigid  Calvinism  of  the  Scottish 
Church,  into  something  approaching  to 
Arminianism.  He  was  a  devout  man,  and 
in  the  practice  of  calling  his  family  toge- 
ther to  join  in  prayer.  It  is  known  that 
the  exquisite  picture,  drawn  in  stanzas 

*  There  is  another  observation  of  Gilbert  Burns  on 
his  brother's  narrative,  in  which  some  persons  will  be 
interested.  It  refers  to  where  the  poet  speaks  of  bis 
youthful  friends.  "My  brother,"  says  Gilbert  Burns, 
"  seems  to  set  off  his  early  companions  in  too  conse- 
quential a  manner.  The  principal  acquaintances  we 
had  in  Ayr,  while  boys,  were  four  sons  of  Mr.  Andrew 
M'Culloch,  a  distant  relation  of  my  mother's,  who  kept 
a  tea  shop,  and  had  made  a  little  money  in  the  contra- 
band trade  very  common  at  that  time.  He  died  while 
the  boys  were  young,  and  my  father  was  nominated 
one  of  the  tutors.  The  two  eldest  were  bred  up  shop- 
keepers, the  third  a  surgeon,  and  the  youngest,  the 
only  surviving  one,  was  bred  in  a  counting-house  in 
Glasgow,  where  he  is  now  a  respectable  merchant.  I 
believe  all  these  boys  went  to  the  West  Indies.  Then 
there  were  two  sons  of  Dr.  Malcolm,  whom  I  have 
mentioned  in  my  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  The  eldest, 
a  very  worthy  young  man,  went  to  the  East  Indies, 
where  he  had  a  commission  in  the  army  ;  he  is  the 
person  whose  heart  my  brother  says  the  .Many  Begun 
scenes  could  not  corrupt.  The  other  by  the  interest 
Of  Lady  Wallace,  got  an  ensiginy  in  a  regiment  raised 
by  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  during  the  American  war. 
I  believe  neither  of  them  are  now  (1797)  alive.  We 
also  knew  the  present  Dr.  Paterson  of  Ayr,  and  a 
younger  brother  of  his  now  in  Jamaica,  who  were 
much  younger  than  us.  I  had  almost  forgot  to  mention 
Dr.  Charles  of  Ayr,  who  was  a  little  older  than  my 
brother,  and  with  whom  we  had  a  longer  and  closer 
intimacy  than  with  any  of  the  others,  which  did  not, 
however,  continue  in  after  life." 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


24 

xii.  xiii.  xiv.  xv.  xvi.  and  xviii.  of  the  Cot- 
ter's Saturday  Night,  represents  William 
Burnes  and  his  family  at  their  evening- 
devotions. 

Of  a  family  so  interesting-  as  that  which 
Inhabited  the  cottage  of  William  Burnes, 
and  particularly  of  the  father  of  the  fami- 
ly, the  reader  will  perhaps  be  willing-  to 
listen  to  some  farther  account.  What 
follows  is  given  by  one  already  mentioned 
with  so  much  honour  in  the  narrative  of 
Gilbert  Burns,  Mr.  Murdoch,  the  precep- 
tor of  our  poet,  who,  in  a  letter  to  Joseph 
Cooper  Walker,  Esq.  of  Dublin,  author 
of  the  Historical  Memoirs  of  the  Irish 
Bards,  and  the  Historical  Memoirs  of  the 
Italian  Tragedy,  thus  expresses  himself: 

"  Sir, — I  was  lately  favoured  with  a 
letter  from  our  worthy  friend,  the  Rev. 
Wm.  Adair,  in  which  he  requested  me  to 
communicate  to  you  whatever  particulars 
I  could  recollect  concerning  Robert  Burns, 
the  Ayrshire  poet.  My  business  being  at 
present  multifarious  and  harassing,  my 
attention  is  consequently  so  much  divided, 
and  I  am  so  little  in  the  habit  of  express- 
ing my  thoughts  on  paper,  that  at  this 
distance  of  time  I  can  give  but  a  very  im- 
perfect sketch  of  the  early  part  of  the  life 
of  that  extraordinary  genius,  with  which 
alone  I  am  acquainted. 

"  William  Burnes,  the  father  of  the  po- 
et, was  born  in  the  shire  of  Kincardine, 
and  bred  a  gardener.  He  had  been  set- 
tled in  Ayrshire  ten  or  twelve  years  be- 
fore T  knew  him,  and  had  been  in  the  ser- 
vice of  Mr.  Crawford,  of  Doonside.  He 
was  afterwards  employed  as  a  gardener 
and  overseer  by  Provost  Ferguson  of 
Doonholm,  in  the  parish  of  Allovvay,which 
is  now  united  with  that  of  Ayr.  In  this 
parish,  on  the  road  side,  a  Scotch  mile 
and  a  half  from  the  town  of  Ayr,  and  half 
a  mile  from  the  bridge  of  Doon,  William 
Burnes  took  a  piece  of  land,  consisting  of 
about  seven  acres;  part  of  which  he  laid 
out  in  garden  ground,  and  part  of  which 
he  kept  to  graze  a  cow,  &c.  still  continu- 
ing in  the  employ  of  Provost  Ferguson. 
Upon  this  little  farm  was  erected  an  hum- 
ble dwelling,  of  which  William  Burnes 
was  the  architect.  It  was,  wilh  the  ex- 
ception of  a  little  straw,  literally  a  taber- 
nacle of  clay.  In  this  mean  cottage,  of 
which  T  myself  was  at  times  an  inhabitant, 
1  really  believe  there  dwelt  a  larger  por- 
tion ef  content  than  in  any  palace  in  Eu- 
rope.    The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  will 


give  some  idea  of  the  temper  and  man- 
ners that  prevailed  there. 

"  In  1765,  about  the  middle  of  March, 
Mr.  W.  Burnes  came  to  Ayr,  and  sent  to 
the  school  where  I  was  improving  in  wri- 
ting, under  my  good  friend  Mr.  Robinson, 
desiring  that  I  would  come  and  speak  to 
him  at  a  certain  inn,  and  bring  my  writ- 
ing-book with  me.  This  was  immediately 
complied  with.  Having  examined  my 
writing,  he  was  pleased  with  it — (you  will 
readily  allow  he  was  not  difficult,)  and 
told  me  that  he  had  received  very  satis- 
factory information  of  Mr.  Tcnnant,  the 
master  of  the  English  school,  concerning 
my  improvement  in  English,  and  his  me- 
thod of  teaching.  In  the  month  of  May 
following,  I  was  engaged  by  Mr.  Burnes, 
and  four  of  his  neighbours,  to  teach,  and 
accordingly  began  to  teach  the  little 
school  at  Alloway,  which  was  situated  a 
few  yards  from  the  argillaceous  fabric 
above-mentioned.  My  five  employers  un- 
dertook to  board  me  by  turns,  and  to  make 
up  a  certain  salary,  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
provided  my  quarterly  payments  from  the 
different  pupils  did  not  amount  to  that 
sum. 

"  My  pupil,  Robert  Burns,  was  then 
between  six  and  seven  years  of  age  ;  his 
preceptor  about  eighteen.  Robert,  and 
his  younger  brother,  Gilbert,  had  been 
grounded  a  little  in  English  before  they 
were  put  under  my  care.  They  both 
made  a  rapid  progress  in  reading,  and  a 
tolerable  progress  in  writing.  In  read- 
ing, dividing  words  into  syllables  by  rule, 
spelling  without  book,  parsing  sentences, 
&c.  Robert  and  Gilbert  were  generally  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  class,  even  when 
ranged  with  boys  by  far  their  seniors. 
The  books  most  commonly  used  in  the 
school  were  the  Spelling  Book,  the  New 
Testament,  the  /Hide,  Mason's  Collection 
of  prose  and  verse,  and  Fisher's  English 
Grammar.  They  committed  to  memory 
the  hymns,  and  other  poems  of  that  col- 
lection, with  uncommon  facility.  This 
facility  was  partly  owing  to  the  method 
pursued  by  their  father  and  me  in  instruct- 
ing them,  which  was,  to  make  them  tho- 
roughly acquainted  with  the  meaning  of 
every  word  in  each  sentence  that  was  to 
be  committed  to  memory.  By  the  by, 
this  may  he  easier  done,  and  at  an  earlier 
period  t  han  is  generally  thought.  As  soon 
as  they  were  capable  of  it,  I  taught  them 
to  turn  verse  into  its  natural  prose  order; 
sometimes  to  substitute  synonymous  ex- 


THE  LTFE  OF  BURNS. 


pressions  for  poetical  words,  and  to  sup- 
ply ;ill  the  ellipses.  These,  you  know, 
are  the  means  of  knowing  that  the  pupil 
understands  his  author.  These  are  ex- 
cellent helps  to  the  arrangement  of  words 
in  sentences,  as  well  as  to  a  variety  of 
expression. 

"  Gilbert  always  appeared  to  me  to 
possess  a  more  lively  imagination,  and  to 
be  more  of  the  wit  than  Robert.  I  at- 
tempted to  teach  them  a  little  church- 
mnsic  :  here  they  were  left  far  behind  by 
all  the  rest  of  the  school.  Robert's  ear, 
in  particular,  was  remarkably  dull,  and 
his  voice  untnnable.  It  was  long  before 
I  could  get  them  to  distinguish  one  tune 
from  another.  Robert's  countenance  was 
generally  grave,  and  expressive  of  a  se- 
rious, contemplative,  and  thoughtful  mind. 
Gilbert's  face  said,  Jtfirih,  with,  thee  I  mean 
to  live  :  and  certainly,  if  any  person  who 
knew  the  two  boys,  had  been  asked  which 
of  theni  was  most  likely  to  court  the 
muses,  he  would  surely  never  have  guess- 
ed that  Robert  had  a  propensity  of  that 
kind. 

"  In  the  year  1769,  Mr.  Burnes  quitted 
his  mud  edifice,  and  took  possession  of  a 
farm  (Mount  Oliphant)  of  his  own  im- 
proving, while  in  the  service  of  Provost 
Ferguson.  This  farm  being  at  a  consider- 
able distance  from  the  school,  the  boys 
could  not  attend  regularly ;  and  some 
changes  taking  place  among  the  other 
supporters  of  the  school,  I  left  it,  having 
continued  to  conduct  it  for  nearly  two 
years  and  a  half. 

"In  the  year  1772,  I  was  appointed 
(being  one  of  five  candidates  who  were 
examined)  to  teach  the  English  school  at 
Ayr  ;  and  in  1773,  Robert  Burns  came  to 
board  and  lodge  with  me,  for  the  purpose 
of  revising  the  English  grammar,  &c.  that 
he  might  be  better  qualified:  to  instruct 
his  brothers  and  sisters  at  home.  He 
was  now  with  me  day  and  night  in  school, 
at  all  meals,  and  in  all  my  walks.  At  the 
end  of  one  week,  I  told  him,  that  as  he 
was  now  pretty  much  master  of  the  parts 
of  speech,  &c.  I  should  like  to  teach  him 
something  of  French  pronunciation  ;  that 
when  he  should  meet  with  the  name  of  a 
French  town,  ship,  officer,  or  the  like,  in 
the  newspapers,  he  might  be  able  to  pro- 
nounce it  something  like  a  French  word. 
Robert  was  glad  to  hear  this  proposal, 
and  immediately  we  attacked  the  French 
with  great  courage. 


"  Now  there-was  little  else  to  be  heard 
but  the  deciension  of  nouns,  the  conjuga- 
tion of  verbs,  &c.  When  walking  toge- 
ther,  and  even  at  meals,  I  was  constantly 
telling  him  the  names  of  different  objects, 
as  they  presented  themselves,  in  French; 
so  that  he  was  hourly  laying  in  a  stock  of 
words,  and  sometimes  little  phrases.  In 
short,  he  took  such  pleasure  in  learning, 
and  I  in  teaching,  that  it  was  difficult  to 
say  which  of  the  two  was  most  zealous 
in  the  business ;  and  about  the  end  of  the 
second  week  of  our  study  of  the  French, 
we  began  to  read  a  little  of  the  Adven- 
ture a  of  Telemuchus,  in  Fenelon's  own 
words. 

"  But  now  the  plains  of  Mount  Oliphant 
began  to  whiten,  and  Robert  was  sum- 
moned to  relinquish  the  pleasing  scenes 
that  surrounded  the  grotto  of  Calypso  ; 
and,  armed  with  a  sickle,  to  seek  glory 
by  signalizing  himself  in  the  fields  of  Ce- 
res— and  so  he  did  ;  for  although  but 
about  fifteen,  I  was  told  that  he  perform- 
ed the  work  of  a  man. 

"  Thus  was  I  deprived  of  my  very  apt 
pupil,  and  consequently  agreeable  com- 
panion, at  the  end  of  three  weeks,  one  of 
which  was  spent  entirely  in  the  study  of 
English,  and  the  other  two  chiefly  in  that 
of  French.  I  did  not,  however,  lose  sight 
of  him  ;  but  was  a  frequent  visitant  at  his 
father's  house,  when  I  had  my  half-holi- 
day ;  and  very  often  went,  accompanied 
with  one  or  two  persons  more  intelligent 
than  myself,  that  good  William  Burnes 
might  enjoy  a  mental  feast.  Then  the 
labouring  oar  was  shifted  to  some  other 
hand.  The  father  and  the  son  sat  down 
with  us,  when  we  enjoyed  a  conversation, 
wherein  solid  reasoning,  sensible  remark, 
and  a  moderate  seasoning  of  jocularity, 
were  so  nicely  blended  as  to  render  it  pa- 
latable to  all  parties.  Robert  had  a  hun- 
dred questionsto  askmeabout  the  French, 
&c. ;  and  the  father,  who  had  always  ra- 
tional information  in  view,  had  still  some 
question  to  propose  to  my  more  learned 
friends,  upon  moral  or  natural  philosophy, 
or  some  such  interesting  subject.  Mrs. 
Burnes  too  was  of  the  party  as  much  as 
possible ; 

1  But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence, 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 
She'd  come  rtgain,  and  with  a  greedy  ear, 
Devour  up  their  discourse.' — 

and  particularly  that  of  her  husband.    At 
all  times,  and  in  all  companies,  she  listen- 


2fi 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ed  to  him  with  a  more  marked  attention 
than  to  any  body  else.  When  under  the 
necessity  of  being  absent  while  he  was 
speaking,  she  seemed  to  regret,  as  a  real 
loss,  that  she  had  missed  what  the  good 
man  had  said.  This  worthy  woman,  Ag- 
nes Brown,  had  the  most  thorough  esteem 
for  her  husband  of  any  woman  I  ever 
knew.  I  can  by  no  means  wonder  that 
she  highly  esteemed  him;  for  I  myself 
have  always  considered  William  Burnes 
as  by  far  the  best  of  the  human  race  that 
ever  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  acquaint- 
ed with — and  many  a  worthy  character  I 
have  known.  I  can  cheerfully  join  with 
Robert,  in  the  Last  line  of  his  epitaph  (bor- 
rowed from  Goldsmith,) 

"  Anil  oven  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side." 

"He  was  an  excellent  husband,  if  1 
may  judge  from  his  assiduous  attention 
to  the  ease  and  comfort  of  his  worthy 
partner,  and  from  her  affectionate  be- 
haviour to  him,  as  well  as  her  unwearied 
attention  to  the  duties  of  a  mother. 

"  He  was  a  tender  and  affectionate 
father ;  he  took  pleasure  in  leading  his 
children  in  the  path  of  virtue  ;  not  in 
driving  them  as  some  parents  do,  to  the 
performance  of  duties  to  which  they  them- 
selves are  averse.  He  took  care  to  find 
fault  but  very  seldom ;  and  therefore, 
when  he  did  rebuke,  he  was  listened  to 
with  a  kind  of  reverential  awe.  A  look 
of  disapprobation  was  felt ;  a  reproof  was 
severely  so  ;  and  a  stripe  with  the  tawz, 
even  on  the  skirt  of  the  coat,  gave  heart- 
felt pain,  produced  a  loud  lamentation, 
and  brought  forth  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  He  had  the  art  of  gaining  the  esteem 
and  good-will  of  those  that  were  labour- 
ers under  him.  I  think  I  never  saw  him 
angry  but  twice  ;  the  one  time  it  was 
with  the  foreman  of  the  band,  for  not 
reaping  the  field  as  he  was  desired  ;  and 
the  other  time,  it  was  with  an  old  man, 
for  using  smutty  inuendoes  and  double 
entendres.  Were  every  foul  mouthed  old 
man  to  receive  a  seasonable  check  in 
this  way,  it  would  be  to  the  advantage 
of  the  rising  generation.  As  he  was  at 
no  time  overbearing  to  inferiors,  he  was 
equally  incapable  of  that  passive,  pitiful, 
paltry  spirit,  that  induces  some  people  to 
keep  booing  and  booing'  in  the  presence  of 
a  greal  man.  He  always  treated  supe- 
riors with  a  becoming  respect  :  but  he 
never  gave  the  smallest  encouragement 


to  aristocratical  arrogance.  But  I  must 
not  pretend  to  give  you  a  description  of 
all  the  manly  qualities,  the  rational  and 
Christian  virtues,  of  the  venerable  Wil- 
liam Burnes.  Time  would  fail  me.  I 
shall  only  add,  that  he  carefully  practised 
every  known  duty,  and  avoided  every 
thing  that  was  criminal;  or,  in  the  apos- 
tle's words,  Herein  did  he  exercise  him- 
self in  tiring  a  life  raid  of  offence  towards 
God  and  towards  men.  O  for  a  world  of 
men  of  such  dispositions  !  We  should 
t  hen  ha  ve  no  wars.  I  have  often  wished, 
for  the  good  of  mankind,  that  it  were  as 
customary  to  honour  and  perpetuate  the 
memory  of  those  who  excel  in  moral  rec- 
titude, as  it  is  to  extol  what  are  called 
heroic  actions:  then  would  the  mausoleum 
of  the  friend  of  my  youth  overtop  and  sur- 
pass most  of  the  monuments  I  see  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

"  Although  I  cannot  do  justice  to  the 
character  of  this  worthy  man,  yet  you 
will  perceive  from  these  few  particulars, 
what  kind  of  person  had  the  principal 
hand  in  the  education  of  our  poet.  lie 
spoke  the  English  language  with  more 
propriety  [both  with  respect  to  diction 
and  pronunciation,)  than  any  man  I  ever 
knew  with  no  greater  advantages.  This 
had  a  very  good  effect  on  the  boys,  who 
began  to  talk,  and  reason  like  men,  much 
sooner  than  their  neighbours.  I  do  not 
recollect  any  of  their  contemporaries,  at 
my  little  seminary,  who  afterwards  made 
any  great  figure,  as  literary  characters, 
except  Dr.  Tennant,  who  was  chaplain 
to  Colonel  Fullarton's  regiment,  and  who 
is  now  in  the  East  Indies.  He  is  a  man 
of  genius  and  learning  ;  yet  affable,  and 
free  from  pedantry. 

"  Mr.  Burnes,  in  a  short  time,  found 
that  lie  had  over-rated  Mount  Oliplianl, 
and  that  he  could  not  rear  his  numerous 
family  upon  it.  After  being  there  some 
years,  he  removed  to  Lochlea,  in  the 
parish  of  Tail  10  It  on,  where,  I  believe,  Ro- 
bert wrote  most  of  his  poems. 

"  But  here,  Sir,  you  will  permit  me  to 
pause.  I  can  tell  you  but.  little  more  rela- 
tive to  our  poet.  I  shall,  however,  in  my 
next,  send  you  a  copy  of  one  of  his  letters 
to  me,  about  the  year  1783.  I  received 
one  since,  but  it  is  mislaid.  Please  re- 
member me,  in  the  best  manner,  to  my 
worthy  friend  Mr.  Adair,  when  you  see 
him,  or  write  to  him. 

"  Hart-street,  Bloomsbury-Squafe, 
London,  Feb.  22,  1799." 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


27 


As  the  narrative  of  Gilbert  Burns  was 
written  at  :i  time  when  be  was  ignorant 
of  the  existence  of  the  preceding  narra- 
tive of  his  brother,  so  this  letter  of  Mr. 
Murdoch  was  written  without,  his  having 
any  knowledge  that  either  of  bis  pupils 
had  been  employed  on  the  same  subject. 
The  three  relations  serve,  therefore,  not 
merely  to  illustrate,  but  to  authenticate 
each  other.  Though  the  information 
they  convey  might  have  been  presented 
within  a  shorter  compass,  by  reducing  the 
whole  into  one  unbroken  narrative,  i1  is 
scarcely  to  be  doubted,  that  the  intelli- 
gent reader  will  he  far  more  gratiiied  by 
a  sight  of  these  original  documents  them- 
selves. 

Under  the  humble  roof  of  his  parents, 
it  appears  indeed  that  our  poet  had  great 
advantages  ;  but  his  opportunities  of  in- 
formation at  school  were  more  limited  as 
to  time  than  they  usually  are  among  his 
countrymen  in  his  condition  of  life;  and 
the  acquisitions  which  he  made,  and  the 
poetical  talent  which  lie  exerted,  under 
the  pressure  of  early  and  incessant  toil, 
and  of  inferior,  and  perhaps  scanty  nutri- 
ment, testify  at  once  the  extraordinary 
force  and  activity  of  his  mind.  In  his 
frame  of  body  he  rose  nearly  to  five  feet 
ten  inches,  and  assumed  the  proportions 
that  indicate  agility  as  well  as  strength. 
In  the  various  labours  of  the  farm  he  ex- 
celled all  hi?  competitors.  Gilbert  Burns 
declares  that  in  mowing,  the  exercise  that 
tries  all  the  muscles  most  severely,  Ro- 
bert wras  the  only  man,  that  at  the  end  of 
a  summer's  day  be  was  ever  obliged  to 
acknowledge  as  his  master.  But  though 
our  poet  gave  the  powers  of  his  body  to 
the  labours  of  the  farm,  he  refused  to  be- 
stow on  them  his  thoughts  or  his  cares. 
White  the  ploughshare  under  his  guidance 
passed  through  the  sward,  or  the  grass 
fell  under  the  sweep  of  his  scythe,  he  was 
bumming  the  songs  of  bis  country,  musing 
on  the  deeds  of  ancient  valour,  or  wrapt 
in  the  allusions  of  Fancy,  as  her  enchant- 
ments rose  on  his  view.  Happily  the 
Sunday  is  yet  a  sabbath,  on  which  man 
and  beast  rest  from  their  labours.  On 
this  day,  therefore,  Burns  could  indulge 
in  a  free  intercourse  with  the  charms  of 
nature.  It  was  his  delight  to  wander 
alone  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  whose 
stream  is  now  immortal,  and  to  listen  to 
the  song  of  the  blackbird  at  the  close  of 
the  summer's  day.  But  still  greater  was 
his  pleasure,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  in 
walking  on  the  sheltered  side  of  a  wood, 
P   2 


in  a  cloudy  winter  day,  and  hearing  the 
storm  rave  among  the  trees;  and  more 
elevated  still  his  delight,  to  ascend  some 
eminence  during  the  agitations  of  nature  ; 
to  stride  along  its  summit,  while  the 
lightning  Hashed  around  him;  and  amidst 
the  bowlings  of  the  tempest,  to  apostro- 
phize the  spirit  of  the  storm.  Such  situ- 
ations he  declares  most  favourable  to  de- 
votion.— "  Rapt  in  enthusiasm,  I  seem 
to  ascend  towards  Ilim  who  xoalks  on  the 
wings  of  the  winds  .'"  If  other  proofs  were 
wanting  of  the  character  of  his  genius, 
this  might  determine  it.  The  heart  of 
the  poet  is  peculiarly  awake  to  every  im- 
pression of  beauty  and  suhlimity  ;  but, 
With  the  higher  order  of  poets,  the  beau- 
tiful is  less  attractive  than  the  sublime. 

The  gayety  of  many  of  Burns's  writings, 
and  the  lively,  and  even  cheerful  colour- 
ing with  which  he  has  portrayed  his  own 
character,  may  lead  some  persons  to  sup- 
pose, that  the  melancholy  which  hung 
over  him  towards  the  end  of  his  days  was 
not  an  original  part  of  his  constitution. 
It  is  not  to  be  doubted,  indeed,  that  this 
melancholy  acquired  a  darker  hue  in  the 
progress  of  his  life  ;  but,  independent  of 
his  own  and  of  his  brother's  testimony, 
evidence  is  to  be  found  among  his  papers, 
that  he  was  subject  very  early  to  those 
depressions  of  mind,  which  are  perhaps 
not  wholly  separate  from  the  sensibility 
of  genius,  but  which  in  him  rose  to  an 
uncommon  degree.  The  following  letter, 
addressed  to  his  father,  will  serve  as  a 
proof  of  this  observation.  It  was  written 
at  the  time  when  he  was  learning  the 
business  of  a  flax-dresser,  and  is  dated5 

Irvine,  December  27,  1781. 
"  Honoured  Str — I  have  purposely 
delayed  writing,  in  the  hope  that  I  should 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  on  New- 
year's-day  ;  but  work  comes  so  hard  upon 
us,  that  I  do  not  choose  to  be  absent  on 
that  account,  as  well  as  for  some  other 
little  reasons,  which  I  shall  tell  you  at 
meeting.  My  health  is  nearly  the  same 
as  when  you  were  here,  only  my  sleep  is 
a  little  sounder  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  I  am 
rather  better  than  otherwise,  though  I 
mend  by  very  slow  degrees.  The  weak- 
ness of  my  nerves  has  so  debilitated  my 
mind,  that  I  dare  neither  review  past 
wants,  nor  look  forward  into  futurity  ; 
for  the  least  anxiety  or  perturbation  in 
my  breast,  produces  most  unhappy  effects 
on  my  whole  frame.  Sometimes,  in- 
deed, when  for  an  hour  or  two  my  spirits 


28 

are  a  little  lightened,  1  glimmer  into  futu- 
rity ;  but  my  principal,  and  indeed  my 
only  pleasurable  employment,  is  looking 
backwards  and  forwards  in  a  moral  ami 
religious  way.  I  am  tranpsorted  at  the 
thought,  that  ere  long,  very  soon,  1  shall 
bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  all  the  pains  and 
uneasiness,  and  disquietudes  of  this  weary 
life ;  for  1  assure  you  I  am  heartily  tired  of 
it;  and,  if  I  do  not  very  much  deceive  my- 
self,I  could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign  it, 

'The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confin'd  at  home, 
Kests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come.' 

"  It  is  for  this  reason  I  am  more  pleased 
with  the  15th,  16th,  and  17th  verses  of  the 
7th  chapter  of  Revelations,  than  with  any 
ten  times  as  many  verses  in  the  whole 
Bible,  and  would  not  exchange  the  noble 
enthusiasm  with  which  they  inspire  me, 
for  all  that  this  world  has  to  offer.*  As 
for  this  world,  I  despair  of  ever  making 
a  figure  in  it.  I  am  not  formed  for  the 
bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the  flutter  of  the 
gay.  I  shall  never  again  be  capable  of 
entering  into  such  scenes.  Indeed  I  am 
altogether  unconcerned  at  the  thoughts 
of  this  life.  I  foresee  that  poverty  and 
obscurity  probably  await  me.  I  am  in 
some  measure  prepared,  and  daily  pre- 
paring to  meet  them.  I  have  but  j  ust  time 
and  paper  to  return  you  my  grateful 
thanks  for  the  lessons  of  virtue  and  piety 
you  have  given  me,  which  were  too  much 
neglected  at  the  time  of  giving  them,  but 
which,  I  hope,  have  been  remembered 
ere  it  is  yet  too  late.  Present  my  dutiful 
respects  to  my  mother,  and  my  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Muir ;  and  with 
wishing  you  a  merry  New-year's-day,  I 
shall  conclude.  I  am,  honoured  Sir, 
Your  dutiful  son, 

"  Robert  Burns." 

"  P.  S.  My  meal  is  nearly  out ;  but  I 
am  going  to  borrow,  till  I  get  more." 

This  letter,  writ  t  on  several  years  before 
the  publication  of  his  poems,  when  his 
name  was  as  obscure  as  his  condition  was 

*  The  verses  of  Scripture  here  alluded  to,  are  as  fol- 
lows : 

15.  Then fm-e  arc  they  before  the  throne  of  God, 
and  serve  him  day  and  night  in  his  temple;  and  he  that 
eittetk  on  the  throne  shall  dwell  among-  them. 

16.  Thty  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any 
more ;  neither  shall  the  sun  light  on  them,  nor  any 
heat. 

17.  For  the  I.amb,  which  is  in  the  midst  of  the 
throne,  shall  feed  them,  and  shall  lead  them  unto  living 
fountains  of  waters;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  aU 
tears  from  their  eyes. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


humble,  displays  the  philosophic  melan- 
choly which  so  generally  forms  the  po- 
etical temperament,  and  that  buoyant  and 
ambitious  spirit  which  indicates  a  mind 
conscious  of  its  strength.  At  Irvine, 
Burns  at  this  time  possessed  a  single  room 
for  his  lodging,  rented  perhaps  at  the  rate 
of  a  shilling  a  week.  He  passed  his  days 
in  constant  labour  as  a  flax-dresser,  and 
his  food  consisted  chiefly  of  oatmeal,  sent 
to  him  from  his  father's  family.  The 
store  of  this  humble,  though  wholesome 
nutriment,  it  appears  was  nearly  exhaust- 
ed, and  he  was  about  to  borrow  till  he 
should  obtain  a  supply.  Yet  even  in  tins 
situation,  his  active  imagination  had  form- 
ed to  itself  pictures  of  eminence  and  dis- 
tinction. His  despair  of  making  a  figure 
in  the  world,  shows  how  ardently  he 
wished  for  honourable  fame  ;  and  his  con- 
tempt of  life  founded  on  this  despair,  is 
the  genuine  expression  of  a  youthful  and 
generous  mind.  In  such  a  state  of  re- 
flection, and  of  suffering,  the  imagination 
of  Burns,  naturally  passed  the  dark  boun- 
daries of  our  earthly  horizon,  and  rested 
on  those  beautiful  representations  of  a 
better  world,  where  there  is  neither  thirst, 
nor  hunger,  nor  sorrow;  and  where  hap- 
piness shall  be  in  proportion  to  the  capa- 
city of  happiness. 

Such  a  disposition  is  far  from  being  at 
variance  with  social  enjoyments.  Those 
who  have  studied  the' affinities  of  mind, 
know  that  a  melancholy  of  this  descrip- 
tion, after  a  while,  seeks  relief  in  the 
endearments  of  society,  and  that  it  has  no 
distant  connexion  with  the  flow  of  cheer- 
fulness, or  even  the  extravagance  of  mirth. 
It  was  a  few  days  after  the  writing  of 
this  letter  that  our  poet,  "  in  givino-  a 
welcome  carousal  to  the  new  year,  with 
his  gay  companions,"  suffered  his  flax  to 
catch  fire,  and  his  shop  to  be  consumed 
to  ashes. 

The  energy  of  Burns's  mind  was  not  ex- 
hausted by  his  daily  labours,  the  effusion 
of  his  muse,  his  social  pleasures,  or  his 
solitary  meditations.  Some  time  previ- 
ous to  his  engagement  as  a  flax-dresser, 
having  heard  that  a  debating-club  had 
been  established  in  Ayr,  he  resolved  to 
try  how  such  a  meeting  would  succeed  in 
the  village  of  Tarbolton.  About  the  end 
of  the  year  1780,  our  poet,  his  brother, 
and  five  other  young  peasants  of  the 
neighbourhood,  formed  themselves  into  a 
society  of  this  sort,  the  declared  objects 
of  which  were  to  relax  themselves  after 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


29 


toil,  to  promote  sociality  and  friendship, 
and  to  improve  the  mind.  The  laws  and 
regulations  were  furnished  by  Burns. 
The  members  were  to  meet  after  the 
labours  of  the  day  were  over,  once  b 
week,  in  a  small  public-house  in  the  vil- 
lage ;  where  each  should  offer  his  opinion 
on  a  given  question  or  subject,  supporting 
it  by  such  arguments  as  lie  thought  pro- 
per. The  debate  was  to  be  conducted 
with  order  and  decorum;  and  after  it 
was  finished,  the  members  were  to  choose 
a  subject  for  discussion  at  the  ensuing 
meeting.  The  sum  expended  by  each 
was  not  to  exceed  threepence;  and,  with 
the  humble  potation  that  this  could  pro- 
cure, they  were  to  toast  their  mistresses, 
and  to  cultivate  friendship  with  each 
other.  This  society  continued  its  meet- 
ings regularly  for  some  time ;  and  in  the 
autumn  of  1782,  wishing  to  preserve  some 
account  of  their  proceedings,  they  pur- 
chased a  book  into  which  their  laws  and 
regulations  were  copied,  with  a  pream- 
ble, containing  a  short  history  of  their 
transactions  down  to  that  period.  This 
curious  document,  which  is  evidently  the 
work  of  our  poet,  has  been  discovered, 
and  it  deserves  a  place  in  his  memoirs. 

u  History  of  the  Rise,  Proceedings,  and  Regulations 
of  the  Bachelor's  Club. 

"  Of  birth  or  blood  we  do  not  boast, 
Nor  gentry  does  our  club  afford  ; 

But  ploughmen  and  mechanics  we 
In  Nature's  simple  dress  record." 

"  As  the  great  end  of  human  society  is 
to  become  wiser  and  better,  this  ought 
therefore  to  be  the  principal  view  of  every 
man  in  every  station  of  life.  But  as  ex- 
perience has  taught  us,  that  such  studies 
as  inform  the  head  and  mend  the  heart, 
when  long  continued,  are  apt  to  exhaust 
the  faculties  of  the  mind,  it  has  been 
found  proper  to  relieve  and  unbend  the 
mind  by  some  employment  or  another, 
that  may  be  agreeable  enough  to  keep  its 
powers  in  exercise,  but  at  the  same  time 
not  so  serious  as  to  exhaust  them.  But, 
superadded  to  this,  by  far  the  greater 
part  of  mankind  are  under  the  necessity 
of  earning  the  sustenance  of  human  life  by 
the  labours  of  their  bodies,  whereby,  not 
only  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  but  the 
nerves  and  sinews  of  the  body,  are  so 
fatigued,  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
have  recourse  to  some  amusement  or  di- 
version, to  relieve  the  wearied  man,  worn 
down  with  the  necessary  labours  of  life. 


"  As  the  best  of  things,  however,  have 
been  perverted  to  the  worst  of  purposes, 
so,  under  the  pretence  of  amusement  and 
diversion,  men  have  plunged  into  all  the 
madness  of  riot  and  dissipation;  and,  in- 
stead of  attending  to  the  grand  design  of 
human  life,  they  have  begun  with  ex- 
travagance and  folly,  and  ended  with 
guilt  and  wretchedness.  Impressed  with 
these  considerations,  we,  the  following 
lads  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton, vi%.  Hugh 
Eteid,  Robert  Burns,  Gilbert.  Burns,  Alex- 
ander Brown,  Walter  Mitchell,  Thomas 
Wright,  and  William  JVI'Gavin,  resolved, 
for  our  mutual  entertainment,  to  unite 
ourselves  into  a  club,  or  society,  under 
such  rules  and  regulations,  that  while  we 
should  forget  our  cares  and  labours  in 
mirth  and  diversion,  we  might  not  trans- 
gress the  bounds  of  innocence  and  deco- 
rum ;  and  after  agreeing  on  these,  and 
some  other  regulations,  we  held  our  first 
meeting  at  Tarbolton,  in  the  house  of 
John  Richard,  upon  the  evening  of  the 
11th  of  November,  1780,  commonly  called 
Hallowe'en,  and  after  choosing  Robert 
Burns  president  for  the  night,  we  proceed- 
ed to  debate  on  this  question — Suppose  a 
young  man,  bred  a  farmer,  but  without  any 
fortune,  has  it  in  his  power  to  marry  either 
of  two  women,  the  one  a  girl  of  large  fortune, 
but  neither  handsome  in  person,  nor  agree- 
able in  conversation,  but  who  can  manage 
the  household  affairs  of  a  farm  well  enough; 
the  other  of  them  a  girl  every  way  agreeable 
in  person,  conversation,  and  behaviour,  but 
without  any  fortune  :  which  of  them  shall  he 
choose  ?  Finding  ourselves  very  happy  in 
our  society,we  resolved  to  continue  to  meet 
once  a  month  in  the  same  house,  in  the 
way  and  manner  proposed,  and  shortly 
thereafter  we  chose  Robert  Ritchie  for 
another  member.  In  May  1781,  we 
brought  in  David  Sillar,*  and  in  June, 
Adam  Jamaison,  as  members.  About  the 
beginning  of  the  year  1782,  we  admitted 
Matthew  Patterson,  and  John  Orr,  and  in 
June  following  we  chose  James  Patterson 
as  a  proper  brother  for  such  a  society. 
The  club  being  thus  increased,  we  re- 
solved to  meet  at  Tarbolton  on  the  race- 
night,  the  July  following,  and  have  a 
dance  in  honour  of  our  society.  Accord- 
ingly we  did  meet,  each  one  with  a  part- 
ner, and  spent  the  evening  in  such  inno- 
cence and  merriment,  such  cheerfulness 
and  good  humour,  that  every  brother  will 


*  The  person  to  whom  Burns  addressed  his  Epistla 
to  Davie,  a  brother  poet. 


30 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


long  remember  it  with  pleasure,  and  de- 
light." To  this  preamble  are  subjoined 
the  rules  and  regulations.* 

The  philosophical  mind  will  dwell  with 
interest  and  pleasure,  on  an  institution 
that  combined  so  skilfully  the  means  of 
instruction  and  of  happiness,  and  if  gran- 
deur look  down  with  a  smile  on  these 
simple  annals,  let  us  trust  that  it  will  be  a 
smile  of  benevolence  and  approbation.  It 
is  with  regret  that  the  sequel  of  the  his- 
tory of  the  Bachelor's  Club  of  Tarbolton 
must  be  told.  It  survived  several  years 
after  our  poet  removed  from  Ayrshire, 
but  no  longer  sustained  by  his  talents,  or 
cemented  by  his  social  affections,  its  meet- 
ings lost  much  of  their  attraction  ;  and  at 
length,  in  an  evil  hour,  dissention  arising 
amongst  its  members,  the  institution  was 
given  up,  and  the  records  committed  to 
the  flames.  Happily  the  preamble  and 
the  regulations  were  spared ;  and  as  mat- 
ter of  instruction  and  of  example,  they 
are  transmitted  to  posterity. 

After  the  family  of  our  bard  removed 
from  Tarbolton  to  the  neighbourhood  of 
Mauchline,  he  and  his  brother  were  re- 
quested to  assist  in  forming  a  similar  in- 
stitution there.  The  regulations  of  the 
club  at  Mauchline  were  nearly  the  same 
as  those  of  the  club  at  Tarbolton:  but  one 
laudable  alteration  was  made.  The  fines 
for  non-attendance  had  at  Tarbolton  been 
spent  in  enlarging  their  scanty  potations ; 
at  Mauchline  it  was  fixed,  that  the  money 
so  arising,  should  be  set  apart  for  the  pur- 
chase of  books,  and  the  first  work  pro- 
cured in  this  manner  was  the  .Mirror,  the 
separate  numbers  of  which  were  at  that 
time  recently  collected  and  published  in 
volumes.  After  it,  followed  a  number  of 
other  works,  chiefly  of  the  same  nature 
and  among  these  tin;  Lounger.  The  so- 
ciety of  Mauchline  still  subsists,  and  ap- 
peared  in  the  list  of  subscribers  to  the 
first  edition  of  the  works  of  its  celebrated 
associate. 

The  members  of  these  two  societies 
were  originally  all  young  men  from  the 
country,  and  chiefly  sons  of  farmers;  a 
description  of  persons,  in  the  opinion  of 
our  poet,  more  agreeable  in  their  man- 
ners, more  virtuous  in  their  conduct,  and 
more  susceptible  of  improvement,  than 
the  self-sufficient  mechanics  of  count  ry- 
towns.     With  deference  to  the  convcr- 

*  For  which  sec  Appendix,  JVo.  II.  jYoU  C 


sation  society  of  Mauchline,  it  may  be 
doubted,  whether  the  books  which  they 
purchased  were  of  a  kind  best  adapted  to 
promote  the  interest  and  happiness  of 
persons  in  this  situation  of  life.  The 
J\Iirror  and  the  Lounger,  though  works 
of  great  merit,  may  be  said,  on  a  general 
view  of  their  contents,  to  be  less  calcu- 
lated to  increase  the  knowledge,  than  to 
refine  the  taste  of  those  who  read  thern ; 
and  to  this  last  object,  their  morality  it- 
self, which  is  however  always  perfectly 
pure,  may  be  considered  as  subordinate. 
As  works  of  taste,  they  deserve  great 
praise.  They  are,  indeed,  refined  to  a 
high  degree  of  delicacy ;  and  to  this  cir- 
cumstance it  is  perhaps  owing,  that  they 
exhibit  little  or  nothing  of  the  peculiar 
manners  of  the  age  or  country  in  which 
they  were  produced.  But  delicacy  of 
taste,  though  the  source  of  many  plea- 
sures, is  not  without  some  disadvantages ; 
and  to  render  it  desirable,  the  possessor 
should  perhaps  in  all  cases  be  raised  above 
the  necessity  of  bodily  labour,  unless  in- 
deed we  should  include  under  this  term 
the  exercise  of  the  imitative  arts,  over 
which  taste  immediately  presides.  Deli- 
cacy of  taste  may  be  a  blessing  to  him 
who  has  the  disposal  of  his  own  time,  and 
who  can  choose  what  book  he  shall  read, 
of  what  diversion  he  shall  partake,  and 
what  company  he  shall  keep.  To  men 
so  situated,  the  cultivation  of  taste  affords 
a  grateful  occupation  in  itself,  and  opens 
a  path  to  many  other  gratifications.  To 
men  of  genius,  in  the  possession  of  opu- 
lence and  leisure,  the  cultivation  of  the 
taste  may  be  said  to  be  essential ;  since 
it  affords  employment  to  those  faculties, 
which  without  employment  would  destroy 
the  happiness  of  the  possessor,  and  cor- 
rects that  morbid  sensibility,  or,  to  use 
the  expressions  of  Mr.  Hume,  that  deli- 
cacy of  passion,  which  is  the  bane  of  the 
temperament  of  genius.  Happy  had  it 
been  for  our  hard,  after  lie  emerged  from 
the  condition  of  a  peasant,  had  the  deli- 
cacy of  his  taste  equalled  the  sensibility 
of  his  passions,  regulating  all  the  effusions 
of  his  muse,  and  presiding  over  all  his  so- 
cial enjoyments.  But  to  the  thousands 
who  share  the  original  condition  of  Burns, 
and  who  are  doomed  to  pass  I  heir  lives  in 
the  station  in  which  they  were  born,  de- 
licacy of  taste,  were  it  even  of  easy  attain- 
ment, would,  if  not  a  positive  evil,  be  at 
least  a  doubtful  blessing.  Delicacy  of 
taste  may  make  many  necessary  labours 
irksome  or  disgusting ;  and  should  it  ren- 
der the  cultivator  of  the  soil  unhappy  in 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


31 


hissituation,itpresentsnomeans  by  which 
that  situation  may  be  improved.  Taste 
and  literature,  which  diffuse  so  many 
charms  throughout  society,  which  some- 
times secure  to  their  votaries  distinction 
while  living',  and  which  still  more  fre- 
quently obtain  for  them  posthumous  fame, 
seldom  procure  opulence,  or  even  inde- 
pendence, when  cultivated  with  the  ut- 
most attention;  and  can  scarcely  be  pur- 
sued with  advantage  by  the  peasant  in  the 
short  intervals  of  leisure  which  his  occu- 
pations allow.  Those  who  raise  them- 
selves from  the  condition  of  daily  labour, 
are  usually  men  who  excel  in  the  practice 
of  some  useful  art,  or  who  join  habits  of 
industry  and  sobriety  to  an  acquaintance 
with  some  of  the  more  common  branches 
of  knowledge.  The  penmanship  of  But- 
terworth,  and  the  arithmetic  of  Cocker, 
may  be  studied  by  men  in  the  humblest 
walks  of  life;  and  they  will  assist  the 
peasant  more  in  the  pursuit  of  indepen- 
dence, than  the  study  of  Homer  or  of 
Shakspcare,  though  he  could  comprehend, 
and  even  imitate  the  beauties  of  those  im- 
mortal bards. 

These  observations  are  not  offered  with- 
out some  portion  of  doubt  and  hesitation. 
The  subject  has  many  relations,  and  would 
justify  an  ample  discussion.  It  maybe  ob- 
served, on  the  other  hand,  that  the  first 
step  to  improvement  is  to  awaken  the  de- 
sire of  improvement,'and  that  this  will  be 
most  effectually  done  by  such  reading  as 
interests  the  heart  and  excites  the  imagi- 
nation. The  greater  part  of  the  sacred 
writings  themselves,  which  in  Scotland 
are  more  especially  the  manual  of  the 
poor,  come  under  this  description.  It 
may  be  farther  observed,  that  every  hu- 
man being,  is  the  proper  judge  of  his  own 
happiness,  and  within  the  path  of  inno- 
cence, ought  to  be  permitted  to  pursue  it. 
Since  it  is  the  taste  of  the  Scottish  pea- 
santry to  give  a  preference  to  works  of 
taste  and  of  fancy,*  it  may  be  presumed 
they  find  a  superior  gratification  in  the 
perusal  of  such  works ;  and  it  may  be 
added,  that  it  is  of  more  consequence  they 
should  be  made  happy  in  their  original 
condition,  than  furnished  with  the  means, 
or  with  the  desire  of  rising  above  it.  Such 
considerations  are  doubtless  of  much 
weight ;  nevertheless,  the  previous  reflec- 

*  In  several  lists  of  book-societies  among  the  poorer 
classes  in  Scotland  which  the  editor  has  seen,  works  of 
this  description  form  a  great  part.  These  societies  are 
by  no  mean?  general,  and  it  is  not  supposed  that  they 
are  increasing  at  present. 


tions  may  deserve  to  be  examined,  and 
here  we  shall  leave  the  subject. 

Though  the  records  of  the  society  at 
Tarbolton  are  lost,  and  those  of  the  soci- 
ety at  Mauchline  have  not  been  transmit- 
ted, yet  we  may  safely  affirm,  that  our 
poet  was  a  distinguished  member  of  both 
these  associations,  which  were  well   cal- 
culated to  excite  and  to  develop  the  pow- 
ers of  his  mind.     From  seven  to  twelve 
persons  constituted  the  society  of  Tarbol- 
ton, and  such  a  number  is  best  suited  to 
the  purposes  of  information.     Where  this 
is  the  object  of  these  societies,  the  num- 
ber should  be  such,  that  each  person  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  imparting  his  sen- 
timents, as  well  as  of  receiving  those  of 
others ;  and  the  powers  of  private  con- 
versation are  to  be  employed,  not  those  of 
public  debate.     A  limited  society  of  this 
kind,  where  the  subject  of  conversation  is 
fixed  beforehand,  so   that  each   member 
may  revolve  it  previously  in  his  mind,  is 
perhaps  one  of  the  happiest  contrivances 
hitherto  discovered  for  shortening  the  ac- 
quisition of  knowledge,  and  hastening  the 
evolution  of  talents.     Such  an  association 
requires  indeed  somewhat  more  of  regu- 
lation than  the  rules  of  politeness  estab- 
lish in  common  conversation  ;  or  rather, 
perhaps,  it  requires  that  the  rules  of  po- 
liteness, which  in  animated  conversation 
are   liable   to  perpetual  violation,  should 
be  vigorously  enforced.     The  order  of 
speech  established  in  the  club  at  Tarbol- 
ton, appears  to  have  been  more  regular 
than  was  required  in  so  small  a  society;* 
where  all  that  is  necessary  seems  to  be 
the  fixing  on  a  member  to  whom  every 
speaker   shall   address   himself,  and  who 
shall  in  return  secure  the  speaker  from  in- 
terruption.    Conversation,  which  among 
men  whom  intimacy  and  friendship  have 
relieved  from  reserve  and  restraint,  is  li- 
able, when  left  to  itself,  -to  so  many  in- 
equalities, and  which,  as  it  becomes  ra- 
pid, so  often  diverges  into  separate  and 
collateral  branches,  in  which  it  is  dissi- 
pated and  lost,  being  kept  within  its  chan- 
nel  by  a  simple   limitation  of  this   kind, 
which  practice  renders  easy  and  familiar, 
flows  along  in  one  full  stream,  and  be- 
comes smoother,  and  clearer,  and  deeper, 
as  it  flows.     It  may  also  be  observed,  that 
in  this  way  the  acquisition  of  knowledge 
becomes  more   pleasant   and  more  easy, 
from  the  gradual  improvement  of  the  fa- 
culty employed  to  convey  it.     Though 

*  See  Appendix,  No.  IL  Note  C- 


32 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


some  attention  has  been  paid  to  the  elo- 
quence of  the  senate  and  the  bar,  which 
in  this,  as  in  all  other  free  governments, 
is  productive  of  so  much  influence  to  the 
few  who  excel  in  it,  yet  little  regard  has 
been  paid  to  the  humbler  exercise  of 
speech  in  private  conversation  ;  an  art 
that  is  of  consequence  to  every  descrip- 
tion of  persons  under  every  form  of  go- 
vernment, and  on  which  eloquence  of  eve- 
ry kind  ought  perhaps  to  be  founded. 

The  first  requisite  of  every  kind  of  elo- 
cution, a  distinct  utterance,  is  the  off- 
spring of  much  time  and  of  long  prac- 
tice. Children  are  always  defective 
in  clear  articulation,  and  so  are  young 
people,  though  in  a  less  degree.  What 
is  called  slurring  in  speech,  prevails  with 
some  persons  through  life,  especially  in 
those  who  are  taciturn.  Articulation 
does  not  seem  to  reach  its  utmost  degree 
of  distinctness  in  men  before  the  age  of 
twenty,  or  upwards  ;  in  women  it  reaches 
this  point  somewhat  earlier.  Female  oc- 
cupations require  much  use  of  speech  be- 
cause they  are  duties  in  detail.  Besides, 
their  occupations  being  generally  seden- 
tary, the  respiration  is  left  at  liberty. 
Their  nerves  being  more  delicate,  their 
sensibility  as  well  as  fancy  is  more  live- 
ly ;  the  natural  consequence  of  which  is, 
a  more  frequent  utterance  of  thought,  a 
greater  fluency  of  speech,  and  a  distinct 
articulation  at  an  earlier  age.  But  in  men 
who  have  not  mingled  early  and  familiar- 
ly with  the  world,  though  rich  perhaps  in 
knowledge,  and  clear  in  apprehension,  it 
is  often  painful  to  observe  the  difficulty 
with  which  their  ideas  are  communicated 
by  speech,  through  the  want  of  those  ha- 
bits that  connect  thoughts,  words,  and 
sounds  together ;  which,  when  establish- 
ed, seem  as  if  they  had  arisen  spontane- 
ously, but  which,  in  truth,  are  the  result 
of  long  and  painful  practice ;  and  when 
analyzed,  exhibit  the  phenomena  of  most 
curious  and  complicated  association. 

Societies  then,  such  as  we  have  been 
describing,  while  they  may  be  said  to  put 
each  member  in  possession  of  the  know- 
ledge of  all  the  rest,  improve  the  powers 
of  utterance  ;  and  by  the  collision  of  opi- 
nion, excite  the  faculties  of  reason  and 
reflection.  To  those  who  wish  to  improve 
their  minds  in  such  intervals  of  labour  as 
the  condition  of  a  peasant  allows,  litis 
method  of  abbreviating  instruction,  may, 
under  proper  regulations,  be  highly  use- 
ful.     To  the  student,   whose  opinions, 


springing  out  of  solitary  observation  and 
meditation,  are  seldom  in  the  first  in- 
stance correct,  and  which  have,  notwith- 
standing, while  confined  to  himself,  an 
increasing  tendency  to  assume  in  his  own 
eye  the  character  of  demonstrations,  an 
association  of  this  kind,  where  they  may 
be  examined  as  they  arise,  is  of  the  ut- 
most importance ;  since  it  may  prevent 
those  illusions  of  imagination,  by  which 
genius  being  bewildered,  science  is  often 
debased,  and  error  propagated  through 
successive  generations.  And  to  men  who 
have  cultivated  letters,  or  general  science 
in  the  course  of  their  education,  but  who 
are  engaged  in  the  active  occupations  of 
life,  and  no  longer  able  to  devote  to  study 
or  to  books  the  time  requisite  for  improv- 
ing or  preserving  their  acquisitions,  asso- 
ciations of  this  kind,  where  the  mind  may 
unbend  from  its  usual  cares  in  discussions 
of  literature  or  science,  afford  the  most 
pleasing,  the  most  useful,  and  the  most 
rational  of  gratifications.* 

Whether  in  the  humble  societies  of 
which  he  was  a  member,  Burns  acquired 
much  direct  information,  may  perhaps  be 
questioned.  It  cannot  however  be  doubt- 
ed, that  by  collision,  the  faculties  of  his 
mind  would  be  excited ;  that  by  practice 
his  habits  of  enunciation  would  be  es- 
tablished ;  and  thus  we  have  some  expla- 
nation of  that  early  command  of  words 
and  of  expression  which  enabled  him  to 
pour  forth  his  thoughts  in  language  not 
unworthy  of  his  genius,  and  which,  of  all 
his  endowments,  seemed,  on  his  appear- 
ance in  Edinburgh,  the  most  extraordi- 
nary.f     For  associations  of  a  literary  na- 

*  When  letters  and  philosophy  were  cultivated  in 
ancient  Greece,  the  press  had  not  multiplied  thetahlets 
of  learning  and  science,  and  necessity  produced  the 
habit  of  studying  as  it  were  in  common.  Poets  were 
found  reciting  their  own  verses  in  public  assemblies  ; 
In  public  schools  only  philosophers  delivered  their  spe- 
culations. Tlie  taste  of  the  hearers,  the  ingenuity  of 
the  scholars,  were  employed  in  appreciating  and  exa- 
mining the  works  of  fancy  and  of  speculation  submit- 
ted to  their  consideration,  and  the  irrevocable  words 
were  not  given  to  the  world  before  the  composition,  as 
well  as  the  sentiments,  were  again  and  again  retouched 
and  improved.  Death  alone  put  the  last  seal  on  the 
labours  of  genius.  Hence,  perhaps,  may  be  in  part  ex- 
plained the  extraordinary  art  and  skill  with  which  the 
monuments  of  Grecian  literature  that  remains  to  us, 
appear  to  have  been  constructed. 

t  It  appears  that  our  Poet  made  more  preparation 
than  might  be  supposed,  for  the  discussion  of  the  socie- 
ty of  Tarbolton.  There  were  found  somp  detached 
memoranda,  evidently  prepared  for  these  meetings; 
and,  amongst  others,  the  heads  of  a  speech  on  the  quos- 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


33 


ture,  our  poet  acquired  a  considerable  re- 
lish; and  happy  had  it  been  for  him,  af- 
ter he  emerged  from  the  condition  of  a 
peasant,  if  fortune  had  permitted  him  to 
enjoy  them  in  the  degree  of  which  In-  was 
capable,  so  as  to  have  fortified  his  princi- 
ples of  virtue  by  the  purification  of  his 
taste ;  and  given  to  the  energies  of  his 
mind  habits  of  exertion  that  might  have 
excluded  other  associations,  in  which  it 
must  be  acknowledged  they  were  too  of- 
ten wasted,  as  well  as  debased. 

The  whole  course  of  the  Ayr  is  fine ; 
but  the  banks  of  that  river,  as  it  bends  to 
the  eastward  above  Mauchline,  are  sin- 
gularly beautiful,  and  they  were  frequent- 
ed, as  may  be  imagined,  by  our  poet  in 
his  solitary  walks.  Here  the  muse  often 
visited  him.  In  one  of  these  wanderings, 
he  met  among  the  woods  a  celebrated 
beauty  of  the  west  of  Scotland  :  a  lady, 
of  whom  it  is  said,  that  the  charms  of  her 
person  correspond  with  the  character  of 
her  mind.  This  incident  gave  rise,  as 
might  be  expected,  to  a  poem,  of  which 
an  account  will  be  found  in  the  following 
letter,  in  which  he  inclosed  it  to  the  ob 
ject  of  his  inspiration  : 

To  Miss 


Mossgiel,  ISth  November,  1786. 

"  Madam, — Poets  are  such  outre  be- 
ings, so  much  the  children  of  wayward 
fancy  and  capricious  whim,  that  I  believe 
the  world  generally  allows  them  a  larger 
latitude  in  the  laws  of  propriety,  than  the 
sober  sons  of  judgment  and  prudence.  I 
mention  this  as  an  apology  for  the  liber- 
ties that  a  nameless  stranger  has  taken 
with  you  in  the  inclosed  poem,  which  he 
begs  leave  to  present  you  with.  Whe- 
ther it  has  poetical  merit  any  way  worthy 
of  the  theme,  I  am  not  the  proper  judge; 
but  it  is  the  best  my  abilities  can  produce ; 
and,  what  to  a  good  heart  will  perhaps 

tinn  mentioned  in  P'29,  in  which,  as  might  be  expected, 
lie  takes  the  imprudent  side  of  the  question.  The  fol- 
lowing may  serve  as  a  fartiier  specimen  of  the  ciues- 
tions  debated  in  the  society  atTaiholton  .—  Whether  do 
we  derive  more  happiness  from  love  or  friendship? 
Whether  between  friends,  who  have  no  reason  to  doubt 
each  other's  friendship,  there  should  be  any  reserve  7 
J(  hcther  is  the  savage  man,  or  the  peasant  of  a  civilized 
country,  in  the  most  happy  situation? — Whether  is  a 
young-  man  of  the  lowerranks  of  life  likeliest  to  hr  hap- 
py, who  has  rrot  a  good  education,  and  his  mind  well  in- 
formed, or  he  who  has  just  the  education  and  informa- 
tion of  those  around  him  1 


be  a   superior  grace,  it  is  equally  sincere 
as  fervent. 

"  The  scenery  was  nearly  taken  from 
real  life,  though  I  dare  say,  Madam,  you  do 

not  recollect  it,  as  I  believe  you  scarcely 
noticed  the  poetic  reveur  as  he  wandered 
by  you.  I  had  roved  out  as  chance  di- 
rected, in  the  favourite  haunts  of  my 
muse  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  to  view 
nature  in  all  the  gayety  of  the  vernal 
year.  The  evening  sun  was  flaming  over 
the  distant  western  hills ;  not  a  breath 
stirred  the  crimson  opening  blossom,  or 
the  verdant  spreading  leaf. — It  was  a 
golden  moment  for  a  poetic  heart.  I 
listened  to  the  feathered  warblers,  pour- 
ing their  harmony  on  every  hand,  with  a 
congenial  kindred  regard,  and  frequently 
turned  out  of  my  path,  lest  I  should  dis- 
turb their  little  songs,  or  frighten  them 
to  another  station.  Surely,  said  I  to  my- 
self, he  must  be  a  wretch  indeed,  who, 
regardless  of  your  harmonious  endea- 
vours to  please  him,  can  eye  your  elusive 
flights  to  discover  your  secret  recesses, 
and  to  rob  you  of  all  the  property  nature 
gives  you,  your  dearest  comforts,  your 
helpless  nestlings.  Even  the  hoary  haw- 
thorn twig  that  shot  across  the  way, 
what  heart  at  such  a  time  but  must 
have  been  interested  in  its  welfare 
and  wished  it  preserved  from  the  rudely 
browsing  cattle,  or  the  withering  eastern 
blast  ?  Such  was  the  scene — and  such 
the  hour,  when,  in  a  corner  of  my  pros- 
pect, I  spied  one  of  the  fairest  pieces  of 
Nature's  workmanship  that  ever  crowned 
a  poetic  landscape,  or  met  a  poet's  eye  : 
those  visionary  bards  excepted  who  hold 
commerce  with  aerial  beings !  Had  Ca- 
lumny and  Villany  taken  my  walk,  they 
had  at  that  moment  sworn  eternal  peace 
with  such  an  object. 

"  What  an  hour  of  inspiration  for  a 
poet  !  It  would  have  raised  plain,  dull, 
historic  prose  into  metaphor  and  mea- 
sure. 

"The  enclosed  song*  was  the  work  of  my 
return  home ;  and  perhaps  it  but  poorly 
answers  what  might  have  been  expected 
from  such  a  scene. 


"  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Madam, 
Your  most  obedient, 

and  very  humble  servant, 
"  Robert  Burks." 

*  The  song  entitled  the  Lass  of  Ballochmyle 


31 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


In  the  manuscript  book  in  which  our 
poet  has  recounted  this  incident,  and  into 
which  the  letter  and  poem  are  copied,  he 
complains  that  the  lady  made  no  reply  to 
his  effusions,  and  this  appears  to  have 
wounded  his  self-love.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, difficult  to  find  an  excuse  for  her 
silence.  Burns  was  at  that  time  little 
known ;  and  where  known  at  all,  noted 
rather  for  the  wild  strength  of  his  humour, 
than  for  those  strains  of  tenderness  in 
which  he  afterwards  so  much  excelled. 
To  the  lady  herself  his  name  had  perhaps 
never  been  mentioned,  and  of  such  a  poem 
she  might  not  consider  herself  as  the  proper 
judge.  Her  modesty  might  prevent  her 
from  perceiving  that  the  muse  of  Tibul- 
lus  breathed  in  this  nameless  poet,  and  that 
her  beauty  was  awakening  strains  des- 
tined to  immortality,  on  the  bank  of  the 
Ayr.  It  may  be  conceived,  also,  that  sup- 
posing the  verse  duly  appreciated,  delica- 
cy might  find  it  difficult  to  express  its  ac- 
knowledgments. The  fervent  imagina- 
tion of  the  rustic  bard  possessed  more  of 
tenderness  than  of  respect.  Instead  of 
raising  himself  to  the  condition  of  the  ob- 
ject  of  his  admiration,  he  presumed  to  re- 
duce her  to  his  own,  and  to  strain  this 
high-born  beauty  to  his  daring  bosom. 
It  is  true,  Burns  might  have  found  pre- 
cedents for  such  freedom  among  the  poets 
of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  indeed  of  every 
country.  And  it  is  not  to  be  denied,  that 
lovely  women  have  generally  submitted 
to  this  sort  of  profanation  with  patience, 
and  even  with  good  humour.  To  what 
purpose  is  it  to  repine  at  a  misfortune 
which  is  the  necessary  consequence  of 
their  own  charms,  or  to  remonstrate  with 
n  description  of  men  who  are  incapable  of 
control ? 

"  The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 
Arc  of  imagination  all  compact." 

It  may  be  easily  presumed,  that  the 
beautiful  nymph  of  Ballochmyle,  u  hoever 
she  may  have  been,  did  not  reject  with 
scorn  the  adorations  of  our  poet,  though 
she  received  them  with  silent  modesty 
and  dignified  reserve. 

The  sensibility  of  our  bard's  temper, 
and  the  force  of  his  imagination,  exposed 
him  in  a  particular  manner  to  the  impres- 
sions of  beauty  ;  and  these  qualities,  unit- 
ed to  his  impassioned  eloquence,  gave  in 
turn  a  powerful  influence  over  the  female 
heart.  The  Banks  of  the  Ayr  formed  t  he 
6cene  of  youthful  passions  of  a  still  ten- 


derer nature,  the  history  of  which  it 
would  be  improper  to  reveal,  were  it  even 
in  our  power  ;  and  the  traces  of  which 
will  soon  be  discoverable  only  in  those 
strains  of  nature  and  sensibility  to  which 
they  gave  birth.  The  song  entitled 
Highland  Mary,  is  known  to  relate  to 
one  of  these  attachments.  '.'  J  t  was  writ- 
ten," says  our  bard,  "  on  one  of  the  most 
interesting  passages  of  my  youthful  days." 
The  object  of  this  passion  died  early  in 
life,  and  the  impression  left  on  the  mind 
of  Burns  serins  to  have  been  deep  and 
lasting.  Several  years  afterwards,  when 
he  was  removed  to  Nithsdale,  he  gave 
vent  to  the  sensibility  of  his  recollections 
in  that  impassioned  poem,  which  is  ad- 
dressed To  Mary,  in  Heaven  ! 

To  the  delineations  of  the  poet  by  him- 
self, by  his  brother,  and  by  his  tutor,  these 
additions  are  necessary,  in  order  that  the 
reader  may  see  his  character  in  its  vari- 
ous aspects,  and  may  have  an  opportunity 
of  forming  a  just  notion  of  the  variety,  as 
well  as  of  the  power  of  his  original  ge- 
nius.* 

*  The  history  of  the  poems  formerly  printed,  will  be 
found  in  the  Appendix  to  this  volume.  It  is  inserted 
in  the  words  of  Gilbert  Burns,  who,  in  a  letter  address- 
ed to  the  Editor,  has  given  the  following  account  of 
the  friends  which  Robert's  talents  procured  him  before 
he  left  Ayrshire,  or  attracted  the  notice  of  the  world. 

"  The  farm  of  Mossgiel,  at  the  lime  of  our  coming  to 
it,  (Martinmas,  1783,)  was  the  property  of  the  Earl  of 
Loudon,  but  was  held  in  tack  by  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton, 
writer  in  Mauchline,  from  whom  we  had  our  bargain ; 
who  had  thus  an  opportunity  of  knowing,  and  showing 
a  sincere  regard  for  my  brother,  before  be  know  that 
he  was  a  poet.  The  poet's  estimation  of  him,  and  the 
strong  outlines  of  his  character,  may  be  collected  from 
tin;  dedication  to  this  gentleman.  When  the  publi- 
cation was  begun,  Mr.  H.  entered  very  warmly  into  its 
interests,  and  promoted  the  subscription  very  exten- 
sively. Mr.  Robert  Aiken,  writer  in  Ayr,  is  a  mail  of 
worth  and  taste,  of  warm  affections,  and  connected 
with  a  most  respectable  circle  of  friends  and  relations. 
It  is  to  this  gentleman  TkeCotter's  Saturday  Night  is 
inscribed.  The  poems  of  my  brotherwhich  1  have  for- 
merly mentioned,  no  sooner  came  into  his  hands,  than 
they  were  quickly  known,  and  well  received  in  Hie  ex- 
tensive circle  of  Mr.  Aiken's  friends,  which  gave  them 
a  sort  of  currency,  necessary  in  this  wise  world,  even 
for  the  good  reception  of  things  valuable  in  themselves. 
But  Mr.  Aiken  not  only  admired  the  poet ;  as  soon  as 
he  became  acquainted  with  him,  he  showed  the  warm- 
est regard  for  the  man,  and  did  every  thing  in  his  pow- 
er to  forward  his  interest  and  respectability.  The 
Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend  was  addressed  to  this  gen- 
tleman's son,  Mr.  A.  II  Aiken,  now  of  Liverpool.  He 
wa  i  the  oldest  of  a  young  family,  who  were  taught  to 
receive  my  brother  with  respect,  as  a  man  of  genius, 
and  their  father's  friond. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


35 


We  have  dwelt  the  longer  on  the  early 
partofhislife,becauseitisthe  least  known; 

and  because,  as  Ikis  already  been  men- 
tioned, this  pari  of  his  history  is  connect- 
ed with  some  views  of  the  condition  and 
manners  of  the  humblesl  ranks  of  society, 
hitherto  little  observed,  and  which  will 
perhaps  be  found  neither  useless  nor  un- 
interesting. 

About  the  time  of  his  leaving  his  native 
county,  his  correspondence  commences  ; 
and  in  the  series  of  letters  now  given  to 
the  world,  the  chief  incidents  of  the  re- 
maining part  of  his  life  will  be  found. 
This  authentic,  though  melancholy  record, 
will  supersede  in  future  the  necessity  of 
any  extended  narrative. 

"  The  Brigs  of  Ayr  is  inscribed  to  John  Ballentine 
Esq.  banker  in  Ayr;  one  of  those  gentlemen  to  win  mi 
my  brother  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Aiken.  He  inter- 
ested himself  very  warmly  in  my  brother's  concerns, 
and  constantly  showed  the  greatest  friendship  and  at- 
tachment to  him.  When  the  Kilmarnock  edition  was 
all  aold  oil*  and  a  considerable  demand  pointed  out  the 
propriety  of  publishing  a  second  edition,  Mr.  Wilson, 
who  had  printed  the  first,  was  asked  if  he  would  print 
the  second,  and  take  his  chance  of  being  paid  from  the 
first  sale.  This  he  declined,  and  when  this  came  to 
Mr.  Ballentine's  knowledge,  he  generously  offered  to 
accommodate  Robert  with  what  money  he  might  need 
for  that  purpose;  but  advised  him  to  go  to  Edinburgh, 
as  the  fittest  place  for  publishing.  When  he  did  go  to 
Edinburgh,  his  friends  advised  him  to  publish  again 
by  subscription,  so  that  he  did  not  need  to  accept  this 
offer.  Mr.  William  Parker,  merchant  in  Kilmarnock 
was  a  subscriber  for  thirty  five  copies  of  the  Kilmarnock 
edition.  This  may  perhaps  appear  not  deserving  of 
notice  here ;  but  if  the  comparative  obscurity  of  the 
poet,  at  this  period,  be  taken  into  consideration,  it  ap- 
pears to  me  a  greater  effort  of  generosity,  than  many 
things  which  appear  more  brilliant  in  my  brother's  fu- 
ture history. 

"  Mr.  Robert  Muir,  merchant  in  Kilmarnock,  was 
one  of  those  friends  Robert's  poetry  had  procured  him, 
and  one  who  was  dear  to  his  heart.  This  gentleman 
had  no  very  great  fortune,  or  long  line  of  dignified  an- 
cestry ;  but  what  Robert  says,  of  Captain  Matthew 
Henderson^  might  be  said  of  him  with  great  propriety, 
that  he  held  the  patent  of  his  honours  immediately  from 
Almighty  God.  Nature  had  indeed  marked  him  a  gentle- 
man in  the  most  legible  characters.  He  died  while 
yet  a  young  man,  soon  after  the  publication  of  my  bro- 
ther's first  Edinburgh  edition.  Sir  William  Cunning- 
ham of  Robertland,  paid  a  very  flattering  attention, 
and  showed  a  good  deal  of  friendsiiip  for  the  poet. 
Before  his  going  to  Edinburgh,  as  well  as  after,  Robert 
seemed  peculiarly  pleased  with  Professor  Stewart's 
friendship  and  conversation. 

"  But  of  all  the  friendships  which  Robert  acquired  in 
Ayrshire  and  elsewhere,  none  seemed  more  agreeable 
lo  him  than  that  of  Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop  ;  nor  any 
which  has  been  more  uniformlyand  constantly  exerted  in 

Q 


Burns  set  out  for  Edinburgh  in  the 
month  of  November,  17JJ6.  He  was  fur- 
nished with  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
Dr.  Blacklock,  from  the  gentleman  to 
whom  the  Doctor  had  addressed  the  let- 
ter which  is  represented  by  our  bard  as 
the  immediate  cause  of  his  visiting  the 
Scottish  metropolis.  He  was  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Moral 
Philosophy  in  the  university  ;  and  had 
been  entertained  by  that  gentleman  at 
Catrine,  his  estate  in  Ayrshire.  He  had 
been  introduced  by  Mr.  Alexander  Dalzel 
to  the  earl  of  Glencairn,  who  had  ex- 
pressed his  high  approbation  of  his  poeti- 
cal talents.  He  had  friends  therefore 
who  could  introduce  him  into  the  circles 
of  literature  as  well  as  of  fashion,  and  his 

behalf  of  him  and  his  family,  of  which,  were  it  proper, 
I  could  give  many  instances.  Robert  was  on  the  point 
of  setting  out  for  Edinburgh  before  Mrs.  Dunlop  had 
heard  of  him.  About  the  time  of  my  brother's  pub- 
lishing in  Kilmarnock,  she  had  been  afflicted  with  a 
long  and  severe  illness,  which  had  reduced  her  mind 
to  the  most  distressing  state  of  depression.  In  this  situ- 
ation, a  copy  of  the  printed  poems  was  laid  on  her 
table  by  a  friend ;  and  happening  to  open  on  The  Cot- 
ter's Saturday  Night,  she  read  it  over  with  the  great- 
est pleasure  and  surprise ;  the  poet's  description  of  the 
simple  cottagers,  operating  on  her  mind  like  the  charm 
of  a  powerful  exorcist,  expelling  the  demon  ennui,  and 
restoring  her  to  her  wonted  inward  harmony  and  satis- 
faction. Mrs.  Dunlop  sent  off  a  person  express  to  Moss- 
giel,  distant  fifteen  or  sixteen  miles,  with  a  very  oblig- 
ing letter  to  my  brother,  desiring  him  to  send  her  half  a 
dozen  copies  of  his  poems,  if  he  had  them  to  spare,  and 
begging  he  would  do  her  the  pleasure  of  calling  at 
Dunlop  House  as  soon  as  convenient.  This  was  the 
beginning  of  a  correspondence  which  ended  only  with 
the  poet's  life.  The  last  use  he  made  of  his  pen  was 
writing  a  short  letter  to  this  lady  a  few  days  before  his 
death. 

"  Colonel  Fullarton,  who  afterwards  paid  a  very  par- 
ticular attention  to  the  poet,  was  not  in  the  country  at 
the  time  of  his  first  commencing  author.  At  this  dis- 
tance of  time,  and  in  the  hurry  of  a  wet  day,  snatch- 
ed from  laborious  occupations,  I  may  have  forgot 
some  persons  who  ought  to  have  been  mentioned  on 
this  occasion  ;  for  which,  if  it  come  to  my  knowledge, 
I  shall  be  heartily  sorry." 

The  friendship  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  was  of  particular 
value  to  Burns.  This  lady,  daughter  and  sole  heiress 
to  Sir  Thomas  Wallace  of  Craigia,  and  lineal  descend- 
ant of  the  illustrious  Wallace,  the  first  of  Scottish  war- 
riors, possesses  the  qualities  of  mind  suited  to  her  high 
lineage.  Preserving,  in  the  decline  of  life,  the  gene- 
rous affections  of  youth  ;  her  admiration  of  the  poet  was 
soon  accompanied  by  a  sincere  friendship  for  the  man  ; 
which  pursued  him  in  after-life  through  good  and  evil 
report ;  in  poverty,  in  sickness,  and  in  sorrow  ;  and 
which  is  continued  to  his  infant  family,  now  deprived 
of  their  parent. 


3G 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


own  manners  and  appearance  exceeding 
every  expectation  that  conld  have  been 
formed  of  them,  he  soon  became  an  object 
meral  curiosity  and  admiration.  The 
following  circumstance  contributed  to 
this  in  a  considerable  degree. — At  the 
time  when  Burns  arrived  in  Edinburgh, 
the  periodical  paper,  entitled  The  Loun- 
ger, was  publishing,  every  Saturday  pro- 
ducing a  successive  number.  His  poems 
had  attracted  the  notice  of  the  gentlemen 
engaged  in  that  undertaking,  and  the 
ninety-seventh  number  of  those  unequal, 
though  frequently  beautiful  essays,  is  de- 
voted to  An  Account  of  Robert  Burns,  the 
Ayrshire  Ploughman,  with  extracts  from 
his  Poems,  written  by  the  elegant  pen  of 
Mr.  Mackenzie.*  The  Lounger  had  an 
extensive  circulation  among  persons  of 
taste  and  literature,  not  in  Scotland  only, 
but  in  various  parts  of  England,  to  whose 
acquaintance  therefore  our  bard  was  im- 
mediately introduced.  The  paper  of  Mr. 
Mackenzie  was  calculated  to  introduce 
him  advantageously.  The  extracts  are 
well  selected  ;  the  criticisms  and  reflec- 
tions are  judicious  as  well  as  generous  ; 
and  in  the  style  and  sentiments  there  is 
that  happy  delicacy,  by  which  the  writings 
of  the  author,  are  so  eminently  distin- 
guished. The  extracts  from  Burns's 
poems  in  the  ninety-seventh  number  of 
The  Lounger  were  copied  into  the  Lon- 
don as  well  as  into  many  of  the  provin- 
cial papers,  and  the  fame  of  our  bard 
spread  throughout  the  island.  Of  the 
manners,  character,  and  conduct  of  Burns 
at  this  period,  the  following  account  has 
been  given  by  Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  university  of 
Edinburgh,  in  a  letter  to  the  editor, 
which  he  is  particularly  happy  to  have 
obtained  permission  to  insert  in  these 
memoirs. 

"  The  first  time  I  saw  Robert  Burns 
was  on  the  23d  of  October,  17S6,  when 
he  dined  at  my  house  in  Ayrshire,  to- 
gether with  our  common  friend  Mr.  John 
Mackenzie,  surgeon,  in  Mauchline,  to 
whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  pleasure  of 
his  acquaintance.  I  am  enabled  to  men- 
tion the  date  particularly,  by  some  verses 
which  Burns  wrote  after  he  returned 
home,  and  in  which  the  day  of  our  meet- 
ing is  recorded. — My  excellent  and  much 

*  This  paper  has  been  attributed,  but  improperly,  to 
Lord  Craig,  one  of  the  Scottish  judges,  author  of  the 
very  interesting  account  of  Michael  Bruce  in  the  3fiih 
number  of  77ie  Mirror. 


lamented  friend,  the  late  Basil,  Lord 
Daer,  happened  to  arrive  at  Catrine  the 
same  day, and  by  the  kindness  and  frank- 
ness of  his  manners,  left  an  impression  on 
the  mind  of  the  poet,  which  never  was 
effaced.  The  verses  I  allude  to  are 
aiming  the  most  imperfect  of  his  pieces  ; 
but  a  few  stanzas  may  perhaps  be  an  ob- 
ject of  curiosity  to  you,  both  on  account 
of  the  character  to  which  they  relate,  and 
of  the  light  which  they  throw  on  the  situ- 
ation and  feelings  of  the  writer,  before 
his  name  was  known  to  the  public* 

"  I  cannot  positively  say  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time,  whether  at  the  period  of 
our  first  acquaintance,  the  Kilmarnock 
edition  of  his  poems  had  been  just  pub- 
lished, or  was  yet  in  the  press.  I  suspect 
that  the  latter  was  the  case,  as  I  have 
still  in  my  possession  copies  in  his  own 
hand  writing,  of  some  of  his  favourite 
performances  ;  particularly  of  his  ver- 
ses "  on  turning  up  a  Mouse  with  his 
plough  ;" — "  on  the  Mountain  Daisy  ;" 
and  "  the  Lament."  On  my  return  to 
Edinburgh,  I  showed  the  volume,  and 
mentioned  what  I  knew  of  the  author's 
history  to  several  of  my  friends  :  and, 
among  others,  to  Mr.  Henry  Mackenzie, 
who  first  recommended  him  to  public  no- 
tice in  the  97th  number  of  The  Lounger. 

"  At  this  time  Burns's  prospects  in  life 
were  so  extremely  gloomy,  that  he  had 
seriously  formed  a  plan  of  going  out  to 
Jamaica  in  a  very  humble  situation,  not 
however  without  lamenting  that  his  want 
of  patronage  should  force  him  to  think  of 
a  project  so  repugnant  to  his  feelings, 
when  his  ambition  aimed  at  no  higher  an 
object  than  the  station  of  an  exciseman 
or  gauger  in  his  own  country. 

"  His  manners  were  then,  as  they  con- 
tinued ever  afterwards,  simple,  manly, 
and  independent;  strongly  expressive  of 
conscious  genius  and  worth ;  but  without 
any  thing  that  indicated  forwardness,  ar- 
rogance, or  vanity.  He  took  his  share  in 
conversation,  but  not  more  than  belonged 
to  him  :  and  listened  with  apparent  atten- 
tion and  deference  on  subjects  where  his 
want  of  education  deprived  him  of  the 
means  of  information.  If  there  had  been 
a  little  more  gentleness  and  accommoda- 
tion in  his  temper,  he  would,  I  think, 
have  been  still  more  interesting ;  but  ho 

*  See  the  poem  entitled  "  Lines  on  an  Interview  with 
Lord  Daer"— Poems,  p.  77. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


37 


had  been  accustomed  to  give  law  in  the 
circle  of  his  ordinary  acquaintance ;  and 
his  dread  of  any  thing  approaching  to 
in*  anness  or  servility,  rendered  his  man- 
ner somewhat  decided  and  hard.  No- 
thing, perhaps,  was  more  remarkable 
among  his  various  attainments,  than  the 
fluency,  and  precision,  and  originality  of 
his  language,  when  he  spoke  in  company; 
more  particularly  as  he  aimed  at  purity 
in  his  turn  of  expression,  and  avoided 
more  successfully  than  most  Scotchmen, 
the  peculiarities  of  Scottish  phraseology. 

"  He  came  to  Edinburgh  early  in  the 
winter  following,  and  remained  there  for 
several  months.  By  whose  advice  he 
took  this  step,  I  am  unable  to  say.  Per- 
haps it  was  suggested  only  by  his  own 
curiosity  to  see  a  little  more  of  the  world ; 
but,  1  confess,  I  dreaded  the  consequen- 
ces from  the  first,  and  always  wished  that 
his  pursuits  and  habits  should  continue 
the  same  as  in  the  former  part  of  life ; 
with  the  addition  of,  what  I  considered 
as  then  completely  within  his  reach,  a 
good  farm  on  moderate  terms,  in  a  part 
of  the  country  agreeable  to  his  taste. 

"  The  attentions  he  received  during  his 
stay  in  town,  from  all  ranks  and  descrip- 
tions of  persons,  were  such  as  would  have 
turned  any  head  but  his  own.  T  cannot 
say  that  I  could  perceive  any  unfavoura- 
ble effect  which  they  left  on  his  mind. 
He  retained  the  same  simplicity  of  man- 
ners and  appearance  which  had  struck 
me  so  forcibly  when  I  first  saw  him  in  the 
country ;  nor  did  he  seem  to  feel  any  ad- 
ditional self-importance  from  the  number 
and  rank  of  his  new  acquaintance.  His 
dress  was  perfectly  suited  to  his  station, 
plain,  and  unpretending,  with  a  sufficient 
attention  to  neatness.  If  I  recollect  right 
he  always  wore  boots  ;  and,  when  on 
more  than  usual  ceremony,  buck-skin 
breeches. 

"  The  variety  of  his  engagements,  while 
in  Edinburgh,  prevented  me  from  seeing 
him  so  often  as  I  could  have  wished.  In 
the  course  of  the  spring  he  called  on  me 
once  or  twice,  at  my  request,  early  in  t  lie 
morning,  and  walked  with  me  to  Braid- 
Hills,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  town, 
when  he  charmed  me  still  more  by  his 
private  conversation,  than  he  had  ever 
done  in  company.  He  was  passionately 
fond  of  the  beauties  of  nature  ;  and  I  re- 
collect once  he  told  me  when  1  was  ad- 
miring a  distant  prospect  in  one.  of  our 


morning  walks,  that  the  sight  of  so  many 
smoking  cottages  gave  a  pleasure  to  his 
mind,  which  none  could  understand  who 
had  not  witnessed,  like  himself,  the  hap- 
piness and  the  worth  which  they  con- 
tained. 

"In his  political  principles  he  was  then 
a  Jacobite  ;  which  was  perhaps  owing 
pa  it  ly  to  this,  that  his  father  was  original- 
ly from  the  estate  of  Lord  Mareschall. 
Indeed  he  did  not  appear  to  have  thought 
much  on  such  subjects,  nor  very  consis- 
tently. He  had  a  very  strong  sense  of 
religion,  and  expressed  deep  regret  at  the 
levity  with  which  he  had  heard  it  treated 
occasionally  in  some  convivial  meetings 
which  he  frequented.  I  speak  of  him  as 
he  was  in  the  winter  of  1786-7  ;  for  after- 
wards we  met  but  seldom,  and  our  con- 
versations turned  chiefly  on  his  literary 
projects,  or  his  private  affairs. 

"  I  do  not  recollect  whether  it  appears 
or  not  from  any  of  your  letters  to  me, 
that  you  had  ever  seen  Burns.*  If  you 
have,  it  is  superfluous  for  me  to  add,  that 
the  idea  which  his  conversation  conveyed 
of  the  powers  ofhis  mind,exceeded,if  possi- 
ble,that  which  is  suggested  by  his  writings. 
Among  the  poets  whom  I  have  happened 
to  know,  I  have  been  struck  in  more  than 
one  instance,  with  the  unaccountable  dis- 
parity between  their  general  talents,  and 
the  occasional  inspirations  of  their  more 
favourable  moments.  But  all  the  faculties 
of  Burns's  mind  were,  as  far  I  could  judge, 
equally  vigorous  ;  and  his  predilection 
for  poetry  was  rather  the  result  of  his 
own  enthusiastic  and  impassioned  temper, 
than  of  a  genius  exclusively  adapted  to 
that  species  of  composition.  From  his 
conversation  I  should  have  pronounced 
him  to  be  fitted  to  excel  in  whatever  walk 
of  ambition  he  had  chosen  to  exert  his 
abilities. 

"  Among  the  subjects  on  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  dwell,  the  characters  of 
the  individuals  with  whom  he  happened 
to  meet,  was  plainly  a  favourite  one. 
The  remarks  he  made  on  them  were  al- 
ways shrewd  and  pointed,  though  fre- 
quently inclining  too  much  to  sarcasm. 
His  praise  of  those  he  loved  was  some- 
times indiscriminate  and  extra  vaganOc 
but  this,  I  suspect,  proceeded  rather  front 
the  caprice  and  humour  of  the  moment, 
than  from  the   effects   of  attachment   in 

*  Thu  Editor  lias  Been  and  convcrucrt  with  Bunts. 


38 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


blinding  his  judgment.  His  wit  was 
ready,  and  always  impressed  with  the 
marks  of  a  vigorous  understanding ;  but 
to  my  taste,  not  often  pleasing  or  happy. 
His  attempts  at  epigram,  in  his  printed 
works,  are  the  only  performances,  per- 
haps, that  he  has  produced,  totally  un- 
worthy of  his  genius. 

"In  summer,  1787,  I  passed  some 
weeks  in  Ayrshire,  and  saw  Burns  occa- 
sionally. I  think  that  he  made  a  pretty 
long  excursion  that  season  to  the  High- 
lands, and  that  he  also  visited  what  Beat- 
tie  calls  the  Arcadian  ground  of  Scot- 
land, upon  the  banks  of  the  Tiviot  and 
the  Tweed. 

"  I  should  have  mentioned  before,  that 
notwithstanding  various  reports  I  heard 
during  the  preceding  winter,  of  Burns's 
predilection  for  convivial,  and  not  very 
select  society,  I  should  have  concluded 
in  favour  of  his  habits  of  sobriety,  from 
all  of  him  that  ever  fell  under  my  own 
observation.  He  told  me  indeed  himself, 
that  the  weakness  of  his  stomach  was  such 
as  to  deprive  him  entirely  of  any  merit  in 
his  temperance.  I  was  however  somewhat 
alarmed  about  the  effect  of  his  now  compa- 
ratively sedentary  and  luxurious  life,  when 
he  confessed  to  me,  the  first  night  he  spent 
in  my  house  after  his  winter's  campaign 
in  town,  that  he  had  been  much  disturbed 
when  in  bed,  by  a  palpitation  of  his  heart, 
which,  he  said,  was  a  complaint  to  which 
he  had  of  late  become  subject. 

"  In  the  course  of  the  same  season  I 
was  led  by  curiosity  to  attend  for  an  hour 
or  two  a  Mason-Lodge  in  Mauchline, 
where  Burns  presided.  He  had  occasion 
to  make  some  short,  unpremeditated  com- 
pliments to  different  individuals  from 
whom  he  had  no  reason  to  expect  a  visit, 
and  every  thing  he  said  was  happily  con- 
ceived, and  forcibly  as  well  as  fluently 
expressed.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  told 
me  that  in  that  village,  before  going  to  Ed- 
inburgh, he  had  belonged  to  a  small  club 
of  such  of  the  inhabitants  as  had  a  taste 
for  books,  when  they  used  to  converse 
and  debate  on  any  interesting  questions 
that  occurred  to  them  in  the  course  of 
their  reading.  His  manner  of  speaking 
in  public  had  evidently  the  marks  of  some 
practice  in  extempore  elocution. 

"  I  must  not  omit  to  mention,  what  I 
have  always  considered  ascharacteristical 
in  a  high  degree  of  true  genius,  the  ex- 


treme facility  and  good-nature  of  his 
taste  in  judging  of  the  compositions  of 
others,  where  there  was  any  real  ground 
for  praise.  I  repeated  to  him  many  pas- 
sages of  English  poetry  with  which  he 
was  unacquainted,  and  have  more  than 
once  witnessed  the  tears  of  admiration 
and  rapture  with  which  he  heard  them. 
The  collection  of  songs  by  Dr.  Aikin, 
which  I  first  put  into  his  hands,  he  read 
with  unmixed  delight,  notwithstanding 
his  former  efforts  in  that  very  difficult 
species  of  writing ;  and  I  have  little  doubt 
that  it  had  some  effect  in  polishing  his 
subsequent  compositions. 

"  In  judging  of  prose,  I  do  not  think 
his  taste  was  equally  sound.  I  once  read 
to  him  a  passage  or  two  in  Franklin's 
Works,  which  I  thought  very  happily  ex- 
ecuted, upon  the  model  of  Addison  ;  but 
he  did  not  appear  to  relish,  or  to  perceive 
the  beauty  which  they  derived  from  their 
exquisite  simplicity,  and  spoke  of  them 
with  indifference,  when  compared  with 
the  point,  and  antithesis,  and  quaintness 
of  Junius.  The  influence  of  this  taste  is 
very  perceptible  in  his  own  prose  com- 
positions, although  their  great  and  vari- 
ous excellences  render  some  of  them 
scarcely  less  objects  of  wonder  than  his 
poetical  performances.  The  late  Dr 
Robertson  used  to  say,  that  considering 
his  education,  the  former  seemed  to  him 
the  more  extraordinary  of  the  two. 

"  His  memory  was  uncommonly  reten- 
tive, at  least  for  poetry,  of  which  he  re- 
cited to  me  frequently  long  compositions 
with  the  most  minute  accuracy.  They 
were  chiefly  ballads,  and  other  pieces  in 
our  Scottish  dialect  ;  great  part  of  them 
(he  told  me)  he  had  learned  in  his  child- 
hood from  his  mother,  who  delighted  in 
such  recitations,  and  whose  poetical  taste, 
rude,  as  it  probably  was,  gave,  it  is  pre- 
sumable, the  first  direction  to  her  son's 
genius. 

"  Of  the  more  polished  verses  which 
accidentally  fell  into  his  hands  in  his  early 
years,  he  mentioned  particularly  the  re- 
commendatory poems,  by  different  au- 
thors, prefixed  to  Hervey's  Meditations  ; 
a  book  which  has  always  had  a  very  wide 
circulation  among  such  of  the  country 
people  of  Scotland,  as  affect  to  unite 
some  degree  of  taste  with  their  religious 
studies.  And  t  hese  poems  (although  they 
are  certainly  below  mediocrity)  he  con- 
tinued to  read  with  a  degree  of  rapture 


THE  LIFE   OF  BURNS. 


39 


beyond  expression.  He  took  notice  of 
this  fact  himself,  as  a  proof  how  much 
the  taste  is  liable  to  be  influenced  by  acci- 
dental circumstances. 

"  His  father  appeared  to  me,  from  the 
account  he  gave  of  him,  to  have  been  a 
respectable  and  worthy  character,  pos- 
sessed of  a  mind  superior  to  what  might 
have  been  expected  from  his  station  in 
life.  He  ascribed  much  of  his  own  prin- 
ciples and  feelings  to  the  early  impres- 
sions he  had  received  from  his  instruction 
and  example.  I  recollect  that  he  once 
applied  to  him  (and  he  added,  that  the 
passage  was  a  literal  statement  of  fact) 
the  two  last  lines  of  the  following  passage 
in  the  Minstrel:  the  whole  of  which  he 
repeated  with  great  enthusiasm  : 

Shall  I  be  left  forgotten  in  the  dust, 

When  fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive  ? 
Shall  nature's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 

Bid  him,  though  doom'd  to  perish,  hope  to  live? 
Is  it  for  this  fair  virtue  oft  must  strive, 

With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain') 
No!  Heaven's  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive; 

And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again. 
Bright  thro' the  eternal  year  of  love's  triumphant 
reign. 

This  truth  sublime,  his  simple  sire  had  taught  : 
In  sooth,  'twas  almost  all  the  shepherd  knew. 

"  With  respect  toBurns's  early  educa- 
tion, I  cannot  say  any  thing  with  certain- 
ty. He  always  spoke  with  respect  and 
gratitude  of  the  schoolmaster  who  had 
taught  him  to  read  English ;  and  who, 
finding  in  his  scholar  a  more  than  ordina- 
ry ardour  for  knowledge,  had  been  at 
pains  to  instruct  him  in  the  grammatical 
principles  of  the  language.  He  began  the 
study  of  Latin,  and  dropt  it  before  he  had 
finished  the  verbs.  I  have  sometimes 
heard  him  quote  a  few  Latin  words,  such 
as  omnia  vim  it  amor,  &c.  but  they  seem- 
ed to  be  such  as  he  had  caught  from  con- 
versation, and  which  he  repeated  by  rote. 
I  think  he  had  a  project,  after  he  came  to 
Edinburgh,  of  prosecuting  the  study  un- 
der his  intimate  friend,  the  late  Mr.  Nicol, 
one  of  the  masters  of  the  grammar-school 
here ;  but  I  do  not  know  that  he  ever  pro- 
ceeded so  far  as  to  make  the  attempt. 

"  He  certainly  possessed  a  smattering 
of  French;  and,  if  he  had  an  affectation 
in  any  thing,  it  was  in  introducing  occa- 
sionally a  word  or  phrase  from  that  lan- 
guage. It  is  possible  that  his  knowledge 
in  this  respect  might  be  more  extensive 
than  I  suppose  it  to  be ;  but  this  you  can 


learn  from  his  more  intimate  acquaint- 
ance. It  would  be  worl  h  while  to  inquire, 
whether  he  was  able  to  read  the  French 
authors  with  such  facility  as  to  receive 
from  them  any  improvement  to  his  taste. 
For  my  own  part,  I  doubt  it  much ;  nor 
would  I  believe  it,  but  on  very  strong  and 
pointed  evidence. 

"  If  my  memory  does  not  fail  me,  he 
was  well  instructed  in  arithmetic,  and 
knew  something  of  practical  geometry, 
particularly  of  surveying — All  his  other 
attainments  were  entirely  his  own. 

"  The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  during 
the  winter,  1788-89,*  when  he  passed  an 
evening  with  me  at  Drumseugh,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Edinburgh,  where  I  was 
then  living.  My  friend,  Mr.  Alison,  was 
the  only  other  person  in  company.  I  never 
saw  him  more  agreeable  or  interesting. 
A  present  which  Mr.  Alison  sent  him  af- 
terwards of  his  Essays  on  Taste,  drew 
from  Burns  a  letter  of  acknowledgment 
which  I  remember  to  have  read  with  some 
degree  of  surprise  at  the  distinct  concep- 
tion he  appeared  from  it  to  have  formed 
of  the  general  principles  of  the  doctrine 
of  association.  When  I  saw  Mr.  Alison 
in  Shropshire  last  autumn,  I  forgot  to  in- 
quire if  the  letter  be  still  in  existence.  If 
it  is,  you  may  easily  procure  it,  by  means 
of  our  friend  Mr.  Houlbrooke."f 


The  scene  that  opened  on  our  bard  in 
Edinburgh  was  altogether  new,  and  in  a 
variety  of  other  respects  highly  interest- 
ing, especially  to  one  of  his  disposition  of 
mind.  To  use  an  expression  of  his  own, 
he  found  himself,  "  suddenly  translated 
from  the  veriest  shades  of  life,"  into  the 
presence,  and,  indeed,  into  the  society  of 
a  number  of  persons,  previously  known  to 
him  by  report  as  of  the  highest  distinc- 
tion in  his  country,  and  whose  characters 
it  was  natural  for  him  to  examine  with  no 
common  curiosity. 

From  the  men  of  letters,  in  general,  his 
reception  was  particularly  flattering.  The 

*  Or  rather  1780-510.  I  cannot  speak  with  confi- 
dence with  respect  to  the  particular  year.  Some  of 
my  other  dates  may  possibly  require  correction,  us  I 
keep  no  journal  of  such  occurrences. 

*  This  letter  is  No.  CX1V 


40 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


late  Dr.  Robertson,  Dr.  Blair,  Dr.  Gre- 
gory, Mr.  Stewart,  Mr.  Mackenzie,  and 
Mr.  Frazer  Tytler,  may  be  mentioned  in 
the  list  of  those  who  perceived  his  un- 
common talents,  who  acknowledged  more 
especially  his  powers  in  conversation,  and 
who  interested  themselves  in  the  cultiva- 
tion of  his  genius.  In  Edinburgh,  litera- 
ry and  fashionable  society  are  a  good  deal 
mixed.  Our  bard  was  an  acceptable  guest 
in  the  gayest  and  most  elevated  circles, 
and  frequently  received  from  female  beau- 
ty and  elegance,  those  attentions  above 
all  others  most  grateful  to  him.  At 
the  table  of  Lord  Monboddo  he  was  a 
frequent  guest ;  and  while  he  enjoyed  the 
society,  and  partook  of  the  hospitalities  of 
the  venerable  judge,  he  experienced  the 
kindness  and  condescension  of  his  lovely 
and  accomplished  daughter.  The  singu- 
lar beauty  of  this  young  lady  was  illumi- 
nated by  that  happy  expression  of  coun- 
tenance which  results  from  the  union  of 
cultivated  taste  and  superior  understand- 
ing, with  the  finest  affections  of  the  mind. 
The  influence  of  such  attractions  was  not 
unfelt  by  our  poet.  "  There  has  not  been 
any  thing  like  Miss  Burnet,  (said  he  in  a 
letter  to  a  friend,)  in  all  the  combina- 
tion of  beauty,  grace,  and  goodness  the 
Creator  has  formed,  since  Milton's  Eve, 
on  the  first  day  of  her  existence."  In  his 
Address  to  Edinburgh,  she  is  celebrated 
in  a  strain  of  still  greater  elevation : 

"  F;iir  Burnet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 
Ilonven's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine  ! 

I  see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high, 
And  own  his  work  indeed  divine  !" 

This  lovely  woman  died  a  few  years  af- 
terwards in  the  flower  of  youth.  Our 
bard  expressed  his  sensibility  on  that  oc- 
casion, in  verses  addressed  to  her  memory. 

Among  the  men  of  rank  and  fashion, 
Burns  was  particularly  distinguished  by 
James,  Earl  of  Glencairn.  On  the  mo- 
tion of  this  nobleman,  the  Caledonian 
Hunt,  an  association  of  the  principal  of 
the  nobility  and  gentry  of  Scotland,  ex- 
tended their  patronage  to  our  bard,  and 
admitted  him  to  their  gay  orgies.  He  re- 
paid their  notice  by  a  dedication  of  the 
enlarged  and  improved  edition  of  his  po- 
ems, in  which  he  has  celebrated  their  pa- 
triotism and  independence  in  very  ani- 
mated terms. 

"  I  congratulate  my  country  that  the 
blood  of  her  ancient  heroes  runs  uncon- 
taminatcd  ;  and  that,  from  your  courage, 


knowledge,  and  public  spirit,  she  may  ex- 
pect protection,  wealth,  and  liberty.  **** 
May  corruption  shrink  at  your  kindling 
indignant  glance  ;  and  may  tyranny  in  the 
Ruler,  and  licentiousness  in  the  People, 
equally  find  in  you  an  inexorable  foe  !"* 


It  is  to  be  presumed  that  thess  gene- 
rous sentiments,  uttered  at  an  era  singu- 
larly propitious  to  independence  of  cha- 
racter and  conduct,  were  favourably  re- 
ceived by  the  persons  to  whom  they  were 
addressed,  and  that  they  were  echoed 
from  every  bosom,  as  well  as  from  that 
of  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.  This  accom- 
plished nobleman,  a  scholar,  a  man  of  taste 
and  sensibility,  died  soon  afterwards.  Had 
he  lived,  and  had  his  power  equalled  his 
wishes,  Scotland  might  still  have  exulted 
in  the  genius,  instead  of  lamenting  the 
early  fate  of  her  favourite  bard. 

A  taste  for  letters  is  not  always  con- 
joined with  habits  of  temperance  and  re- 
gularity; and  Edinburgh,  at  the  period  of 
which  we  speak,  contained  perhaps  an  un- 
common proportion  of  men  of  consider- 
able talents,  devoted  to  social  excesses,  in 
which  their  talents  were  wasted  and  de- 
based. 

Burns  entered  into  several  parties  of  this 
description,  with  the  usual  vehemence  of 
his  character.  His  generous  affections, 
his  ardent  eloquence,  his  brilliant  and 
daring  imagination,  fitted  him  to  be  the 
idol  of  such  associations  ;  and  accustom- 
ing himself  to  conversation  of  unlimited 
range,  and  to  festive  indulgences  that 
scorned  restraint,  he  gradually  lost  some 
portion  of  his  relish  for  the  more  pure,  but 
less  poignant  pleasures,  to  be  found  in  the 
circles  of  taste,  elegance,  and  literature. 
The  sudden  alteration  in  his  habits  of  life 
operated  on  him  physically  as  well  as 
morally.  The  humble  fare  of  an  Ayr- 
shire peasant  he  had  exchanged  for  the 
luxuries  of  the  Scottish  metropolis,  and 
the  effects  of  this  change  on  his  anient 
constitution  could  not  be  inconsiderable. 
But  whatever  influence  might  be  pro- 
duced on  his  conduct,  his  excellent  under- 
standing suffered  no  corresponding  de- 
basement. He  estimated  his  friends  and 
associates  of  every  description  at  their 
proper  valuft,  and  appreciated  his  own 
conduct  with  a  precision  that  might  give 

*  Pee  Dedication  prefixed  to  the  Poems. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


41 


scope  to  much  curious  and  melancholy 

•       reflection,     lie  saw  his  danger,  and  at 

times  formed  resolutions  to  guard  against 

it ;  but  In-  had  embarked  on  the  tide  of  dis- 
sipation, and  was  borne  along  its  stream. 

Of  the  state  of  his  mind  at  this  time,  an 
authentic,  though  imperfect  document  re- 
mains, in  a  book  winch  he  procured  in  the 
spring  of  1787,  for  the  purpose,  as  he  him- 
self informs  us,  of  recording  in  it  what- 
ever seemed  worthy  of  observation.  The 
following  extracts  may  serve  as  a  speci- 
men: 

Edinburgh,  April  9,  1787. 
"  As  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  human 
life  in  Edinburgh,  a  great  many  charac- 
ters which  are  new  to  one  bred  up  in  the 
shades  of  life  as  I  have  been,  I  am  deter- 
mined to  take  down  my  remarks  on  the 
spot.  Gray  observes,  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Palgrave,  that  '  half  a  word  fixed  upon, 
or  near  the  spot,  is  worth  a  cart  load  of 
recollection'.  1  don't  know  how  it  is 
with  the  world  in  general,  but  with  me, 
making  my  remarks  is  by  no  means  a 
solitary  pleasure.  I  want  some  one  to 
laugh  with  me,  some  one  to  be  grave  with 
me,  some  one  to  please  me  and  help  my 
discrimination,  with  his  or  her  own  re- 
mark, and  at  times,  no  doubt,  to  admire 
my  acuteness  and  penetration.  The  world 
are  so  busied  with  selfish  pursuits,  ambi- 
tion, vanity,  interest,  or  pleasure,  that 
very  few  think  it  worth  their  while  to 
make  any  observation  on  what  passes 
around  them,  except  where  that  observa- 
tion is  a  sucker,  or  branch  of  the  darling 
plant  they  are  rearing  in  their  fancy. 
Nor  am  I  sure,  notwithstanding  all  the 
sentimental  flights  of  novel-writers,  and 
the  sage  philosophy  of  moralists,  whether 
we  are  capable  of  so  intimate  and  cor- 
dial a  coalition  of  friendship,  as  that  one 
man  may  pour  out  his  bosom,  his  every 
thought  and  floating  fancy,  his  very  in- 
most soul,  with  unreserved  confidence  to 
another,  without  hazard  of  losing  part  of 
that  respect  which  man  deserves  from 
man ;  or,  from  the  unavoidable  imperfec- 
tions attending  human  nature,  of  one  day 
repenting  his  confidence. 

"  For  these  reasons  I  am  determined  to 
make  these  pages  my  confidant,  I  will 
sketch  every  character  that  any  waystrikes 
me,  to  the  best  of  my  power,  with  un- 
shrinking justice.  I  will  insert  anecdotes, 
and  take  down  remarks  in  the  old  law 
phrase,  without  feud  or  favour. — Where 


I  hit  on  any  thing  clever,  my  own  ap- 
plause will,  in  some  measure,  feast  my 
vanity  ;  and,  begging  Patroclus'  and 
Achates'  pardon,  I  think  a  lock  and  key 
a  security,  at  least  equal  to  the  bosom  of 
any  friend  whatever. 

"  My  own  private  story  likewise,  my 
love  adventures,  my  rambles ;  the  frowns 
and  smiles  of  fortune  on  my  hardship; 
my  poems  and  fragments,  that  must  never 
see  the  light,  shall  be  occasionally  insert- 
ed.— In  short,  never  did  four  shillings 
purchase  so  much  friendship,  since  confi- 
dence went  first  to  market,  or  honesty 
was  set  up  to  sale. 

"  To  these  seemingly  invidious,  but  too 
just  ideas  of  human  friendship,  I  would 
cheerfully  make  one  exception — the  con- 
nexion between  two  persons  of  different 
sexes,  when  their  interests  are  united  and 
absorbed  by  the  tie  of  love — 

When  thought  meets  thought,  ere  from  the  lips  it  part, 
And  each  warm  wish  springs  mutual  from  the  heart. 

There  confidence,  confidence  that  exalts 
them  the  more  in  one  another's  opinion, 
that  endears  them  the  more  to  each  other's 
hearts,  unreservedly  "  reigns  and  revels." 
But  this  is  not  my  lot ;  and,  in  my  situa- 
tion, if  I  am  wise,  (which,  by  the  by,  I 
have  no  great  chance  of  being,)  my  fate 
should  be  cast  with  the  Psalmist's  spar- 
row, "  to  watch  alone  on  the  house-tops." 
—Oh  !  the  pity  ! 


"  There  are  few  of  the  sore  evils  under 
the  sun  give  me  more  uneasiness  and  cha- 
grin than  the  comparison  how  a  man  of 
genius,  nay,  of  avowed  worth,  is  received 
every  where,  with  the  reception  which  a 
mere  ordinary  character,  decorated  with 
the  trappings  and  futile  distinctions  of 
fortune  meets.  I  imagine  a  man  of  abili- 
ties, his  breast  glowing  with  honest  pride, 
conscious  that  men  are  born  equal,  still 
giving  honour  to  whom  honour  is  due  ;  he 
meets  at  a  great  man's  table,  a  Squire 
something,  or  a  Sir  somebody  ;  he  knows 
the  noble  landlord,  at  heart,  gives  the  bard, 
or  whatever  he  is,  a  share  of  his  good 
wishes,  beyond,  perhaps,  anyone  at  table; 
yet  how  will  it  mortify  him  to  see  a  fel- 
low, whose  abilities  would  scarcely  have 
made  an  eightrpenny  tailor,  and  whose 
heart  is  not  worth  three  farthings,  meet 
with  attention  and  notice,  that  are  with- 
held from  the  son  of  genius  and  poverty? 


42 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


"  The  noble  Gloncairn  has  wounded 
me  to  the  soul  here,  because  I  dearly  es- 
ti Tin,  respect,  and  love  him.  He  showed 
so  much  attention,  engrossing  attention 
one  day,  to  the  only  blockhead  at  table 
(the  whole  company  consisted  of  his  lord- 
ship, dunderpate,  and  myself,)  thai  1  was 
within  half  a  point  of  throwing  down  my 
gage  of  contemptuos  defiance  ;  hut  he 
shook  my  hand,  and  looked  so  benevolent- 
ly good  at  parting.  God  bless  him ! 
though  I  should  never  see  him  more,  I 
shall  love  him  until  my  dying  day !  I  am 
pleased  to  think  I  am  so  capable  of  the 
throes  of  gratitude,  as  I  am  miserably 
deficient  in  some  other  virtues. 

"  With  Dr.  Blair  I  am  more  at  my 
ease.  I  never  respect  him  with  humble 
veneration  ;  but  when  he  kindly  interests 
himself  in  my  welfare,  or  still  more,  when 
he  descends  from  his  pinnacle,  and  meets 
me  on  equal  ground  in  conversation,  my 
heart  overflows  with  what  is  called  liking. 
When  he  neglects  me  for  the  mere  car- 
cass of  greatness,  or  when  his  eye  mea- 
sures the  difference  of  our  points  of  ele- 
vation, I  say  to  myself,  with  scarcely  any 
emotion,  what  do  I  care  for  him  or  his 
pomp  either  ?" 


The  intentions  of  the  poet  in  procuring 
this  book,  so  fully  described  by  himself, 
were  very  imperfectly  executed.  He  has 
inserted  in  it  few  or  no  incidents,  but 
several  observations  and  reflections,  of 
which  the  greater  part  that  are  proper 
for  the  public  eye,  will  be  found  inter- 
woven in  bis  letters.  The  most  curious 
particulars  in  the  book  are  the  delinea- 
tions of  the  characters  he  met  with. 
These  are  not  numerous;  but  they  are 
chiefly  of  persons  of  distinction  in  there- 
public  of  letters,  and  nothing  but  the  de- 
licacy and  reaped  due  to  living  charac- 
ters prevents  us  from  committing  them  to 
the  press.  Though  it  appears  that  in 
his  conversation  he  was  sometimes  dis- 
posed to  sarcastic  remarks  on  the  men 
with  whom  he  lived,  nothing  of  this  kind 
is  discoverable  in  these  more  deliberate 
efforts  of  his  understanding,  which,  while 
they  exhibit  great  clearness  of  discrimi- 
nation, manifest  also  the  wish,  as  well  as 
the  power,  to  bestow  high  and  generous 
praise. 

As  a  specimen  of  these   delineations, 

We  give  in   this  edition,  the   character  of 


Dr.  Blair,  who  has  now  paid  the  debt  of 
nature,  in  the  full  confidence  that  this  » 
freedom  will  not  be  found  inconsistent 
with  the  respect  and  veneration  due  to 
that  excellent  man,  the  last  star  in  the 
literary  constellation,  by  which  the  me- 
tropolis of  Scotland  was,  in  the  earlier 
part  of  the  present  reign,  so  beautifully 
illuminated. 

"  It  is  not  easy  forming  an  exact  judg- 
ment of  any  one  ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  Dr. 
Blair  is  merely  an  astonishingproof  of  what 

industry  and  application  can  do.  Natu- 
ral parts  like  his  are  frequently  to  be  met 
with ;  his  vanity  is  proverbially  known 
among  his  acquaintance  ;  but  he  is  justly 
at  the  head  of  wh'at  may  be  called  fine 
writing ;  and  a  critic  of  the  first,  the  very 
first  rank  in  prose  ;  even  in  poetry,  a  bard 
of  Nature's  making  can  only  take  the  pas 
of  him.  He  has  a  heart,  not  of  the  very 
finest  water,  but  far  from  being  an  ordi- 
nary one.  In  short,  he  is  truly  a  worthy, 
and  most  respectable  character." 


By  the  new  edition  of  -his  poems,  Burns 
acquired  a  sum  of  money  1  hat  enabled 
him  not  only  to  partake  of  the  pleasures 
of  Edinburgh,  but  to  gratify  a  desire  he 
had  long  entertained,  of  visiting  those 
parts  of  his  native  country,  most  attrac- 
tive by  their  beauty  or  their  grandeur:  a 
desire  which  the  return  of  summer  natu- 
rally revived.  The  scenery  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tweed,  and  of  its  tribut  ary  st  reams, 
strongly  interested  his  fancy;  and  ac- 
cordingly he  left  Edinburgh  on  the  Gth 
of  May,  1787,  on  a  tour  through  a  coun- 
try so  much  celebrated  in  the  rural  songs 
of  Scotland.  He  travelled  onhorseback, 
and  was  accompanied,  during  some  part 
of  his  journey,  by  Mr.  Ainslie,  now  wri- 
ter to  the  signet,  a  gentleman  who  en- 
joyed much  of  his  friendship  and  of  his 
confidence.  Of  this  tour  a  journal  re- 
mains, which,  however,  contains  only  oc- 
casional remarks  on  the  scenery,  and 
which  is  chiefly  occupied  with  an  account 
of  the  author's  different  stages,  and  with 
his  observations  on  the  various  characters 
to  whom  he  was  introduced.  In  the 
course  of  this  tour  he  visited  Mr.  Ainslie 
of  Berrywell,  the  tat  her  of  his  companion  ; 

Mr.  Brydone,  the  celebrated  traveller,  to 
whom  he  carried  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  Mr.  Mackenzie  :  the  Rev.  Dr.  Som- 
merville  of  Jedburgh,  the  historian;  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Scott  of  Wauchope ;  Dr.  Elliot. 


THE  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


a  physician,  retired  to  a  romantic  spot  on 
the  banks  of  the  Roole  ;  Sir  Alexander 
Don;  Sir  James  Hall,  of  Dunglass  ;  and 
a  great  variety  of  other  respectable  cha- 
racters. Every  where  the  fame  of  the 
poet  had  spread  before  him,  and  every 
where  he  received  the  most  hospitable 
ami  flattering  attentions.  At  Jedburgh 
he  continued  several  days,  and  was  ho- 
noured by  the  magistrates  with  the  free- 
dom of  their  borough.  The  following 
may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  this  tour, 
which  the  perpetual  reference  to  living 
characters  prevents  our  giving  at  large. 

"  Saturday,  May  Gth.  Left  Edinburgh 
— Lammer-muir-hills,  miserably  dreary 
in  general,  hut  at  times  very  picturesque. 

"  Lanson-edge,  a  glorious  view  of  the 
Merse.  Reach  Berrywell  *  *  *  The 
family-meeting  with  my  compagnon  de 
Voyage,  very  charming  ;  particularly  the 
sister.     *     * 

"  Sunday.  Went  to  church  at  Dunse. 
Heard  Dr.  Bowmaker.  *  *  * 

"  Monday.  Coldstream — glorious  ri- 
ver Tweed — clear  and  majestic — fine 
bridge — dine  at  Coldstream  with  Mr. 
Ainslie  and  Mr.  Foreman.  Beat  Mr. 
Foreman  in  a  dispute  about  Voltaire. 
Drink  tea  at  Lenel-House  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Brydone.  *  *  *  Reception  extreme- 
ly flattering.     Sleep  at  Coldstream. 

"  Tuesday.  Breakfast  at  Kelso — 
charming  situation  of  the  town — fine 
bridge  over  the  Tweed.  Enchanting 
views  and  prospects  on  both  sides  of  the 
river,  especially  on  the  Scotch  side.  *  * 
Visit  Roxburgh  Palace — fine  situation  of 
it.  Ruins  of  Roxburgh  Castle — a  holly- 
bush  growing  where  James  II.  was  acci- 
dentally killed  by  the  bursting  of  a  can- 
non. A  small  old  religious  ruin,  and  a 
fine  old  garden  planted  by  the  religious, 
rooted  out  and  destroyed  by  a  Hottentot, 
a  maitre  d' hotel  of  the  Duke's — Climate 
and  soil  of  Berwickshire  and  even  Rox- 
burghshire, superior  to  Ayrshire — bad 
roads — turnip  and  sheep  husbandry,  their 
great  improvements.  *  *  *  Low  mar- 
kets, consequently  low  lands — magni- 
ficence offarmers  and  farm-houses.  Come 
up  the  Tiviot,  and  up  the  Jed  to  Jedburgh 
to  lie,  and  so  wish  myself  good-night. 

"  Wednesday.      Breakfast    with    Mr. 
Fair.    *  *  *    ChnrminjT  romantic   situa- 
Q2 


43 

tion  of  Jedburgh,  with  gardens  and  or- 
chards, intermingled  among  the  houses 
and  the  ruins  of  a  once  magnificent  cathe- 
dral. All  the  towns  here  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  old  rude  grandeur,  but  ex- 
tremely idle. — Jed,  a  fine  romantic  little 
river.  Dined  with  Capt.  Rutherford, 
*  *  *  return  to  Jedburgh.  Walk  up  the 
Jed  with  some  ladies  to  be  shown  Love- 
lane,  and  Blackburn,  two  fairy-scenes. 
Introduced  to  Mr.  Potts,  writer,  and  to 
Mr.  Sommerville,  the  clergyman  of  the 
parish,  a  man,  and  a  gentleman,  but  sadly 
addicted  to  punning. 


"Jedburgh,  Saturday.  Was  presented 
by  the  magistrates  with  the  freedom  of 
the  town. 

"  Took  farewell  of  Jedburgh  with 
some  melancholy  sensations. 

"  Monday,  May  1 4th,  Kelso.  Dine 
with  the  farmer's  club — all  gentlemen 
talking  of  high  matters — each  of  them 
keeps  a  hunter  from  301.  to  50/.  value, 
and  attends  the  fox-hunting  club  in  the 
country.  Go  out  with  Mr.  Ker,  one  of  the 
club,  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Ainslie's,  to  sleep. 
In  his  mind  and  manners,  Mr.  Ker  is  aston- 
ishingly like  my  dear  old  friend  Robert 
Muir — every  thing  in  his  house  elegant. 
He  offers  to  accompany  me  in  my  English 
tour. 

"  Tuesday.  Dine  with  Sir  Alexander 
Don  :  a  very  wet  day.  *  *  *  Sleep  at 
Mr.  Ker's  again,  and  set  out  next  day  for 
Melross — visit  Dryburgh,  a  fine  old  ruined 
abbey,  by  the  way.  Cross  the  Leader, 
and  come  up  the  Tweed  to  Melross.  Dine 
there,  and  visit  that  far-famed  glorious 
ruin — Come  to  Selkirk  up  the  banks  of 
Ettrick.  The  whole  country  hereabouts, 
both  on  Tweed  and  Ettrick,  remarkably 
stony." 


Having  spent  three  weeks  in  exploring 
this  interesting  scenery,  Burns  crossed 
over  into  Northumberland.  Mr.  Ker, 
and  .Mr.  Hood,  I  wo  gentlemen  with  whom 
In'  had  become  acquainted  in  the  course 
of  His  tour,  accompanied  him.  He  visited 
Alnwick-Castle,  the  princely  seat  of  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland  ;  the  hermitage 
and  old  castle  of  Warksworth  ;  Morpeth, 
and    Newcastle. — In   this    last    town  he 


14 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


spent  two  days,  and  then  proceeded  to  the 
south-wesl  by  Hexham  and  Wardrue,  to 

Carlisle. — After  spending  a  day  at  Car- 
lisle with  his  friend  Mr.  Mitchell,  he  re- 
turned into  Scotland,  and  at  Annan  his 
journal  terminates  abruptly. 

Of  the  various  persons  with  whom  he 
became  acquainted  in  the  course  of  this 
journey,  he  has,  in  general,  given  some 
account ;  and  almost  always  a  favourable 
one.  That  on  the  banks  "of  the  Tweed, 
and  of  the  Tiviot,  our  bard  should  find 
nymphs  that  were  beautiful,  is  what  might 
be  confidently  presumed.  Two  of  these 
are  particularly  described  in  his  journal. 
But  it  does  not  appear  that  the  scenery, 
or  its  inhabitants,  produced  any  effort  of 
his  muse,  as  was  to  have  been  wished  and 
expected.  From  Annan,  Burns  proceed- 
ed to  Dumfries,  and  thence  through  San- 
quhar, to  Mossgiel,  near  Mauchline,  in 
Ayrshire,  where  he  arrived  about  the  8th 
of  June,  1787,  after  a  long  absence  of  six 
busy  and  eventful  months.  It  will  easily 
be  conceived  with  what  pleasure  and 
pride  he  was  received  by  his  mother,  his 
brothers,  and  sisters.  He  had  left  them 
poor,  and  comparatively  friendless  :  he 
returned  to  them  high  in  public  estima- 
tion, and  easy  in  his  circumstances.  He 
returned  to  them  unchanged  in  his  ardent 
affections,  and  ready  to  share  with  them 
to  the  uttermost  farthing,  the  pittance 
that  fortune  had  bestowed. 

Having  remained  with  them  a  few  days, 
he  proceeded  again  to  Edinburgh,  and 
immediately  set  out  on  a  journey  to  the 
Highlands.  Of  this  tour  no  particulars 
have  been  found  among  his  manuscripts. 
A  letter  to  his  friend  Mr.  Ainslie,  dated 
Arrachas,  near  Crochairbas,  by  Lochleary, 
June  28,  1787,  commences  as  follows  : 

"  I  write  you  this  on  my  four  through 
a  country  where  savage  streams  tumble 
over  savage  mountains,  thinly  overspread 
with  savage  flocks,  which  starvingly  sup- 
port as  savage  inhabitants.  My  last  si  a  i_ri  i 
was  Inverary — to-morrow  night's  stage, 
Dumbarton.  I  ought  sooner  to  have  an- 
swered your  kind  letter,  but  you  know  I 
am  a  man  of  many  sins. 

Part  of  a  letter  from  our  Bard  to  a 
friend,  giving  some  account  of  his  journey, 
has  been  communicated  to  the  Editor 
since  the  publication  of  the  last  edition. 
The  reader  will  be  amused  with  the  fol- 
lowing extract. 


"  On  our  return,  at  a  Highland  gentle- 
man's hospitable  mansion,  we  fell  in  with 

a  merry  party,  and  danced  till  the  ladies 
left  us,  at  three  in  the  morning.  Our 
dancing  was  none  of  the  French  or  Eng- 
lish insipid  formal  movements;  the  ladies 
sung  Scotch  songs  like  angels,  at  inter- 
vals ;  then  we  rlew  at  Bub  at  the  Bmv- 
slcr,  Tullochgorum,  Loih  Erroch  side,* 
&c.  like  midges  sporting  in  the  mot  tie 
sun,  or  craws  prognosticating  a  storm  in 
a  hairst  day. — When  the  dear  lasses  left 
us  we  ranged  round  the  bowl  till  the 
good-fellow  hour  of  six  :  except  a  few 
minutes  that  we  went  out  to  pay  our  de- 
votions to  the  glorious  lamp  of  day  peer- 
ing over  the  towering  top  of  Benlomond. 
We  all  kneeled  ;  our  worthy  landlord's 
son  held  the  bowl  ;  each  man  a  full  glass 
in  his  hand  ;  and  I,  as  priest,  repeated 
some  rhyming  nonsense,  like  Thomas-a- 
Rhymers  prophecies  I  suppose. — After  a 
small  refreshment  of  the  gifts  of  Somnus, 
we  proceeded  to  spend  the  day  on  Loch- 
lomond,  and  reached  Dumbarton  in  the 
evening.  We  dined  at  another  goodfel- 
low's  house,  and  consequently  pushed 
the  bottle  ;  when  we  went  out  to  mount 
our  horses  we  found  ourselves  "  No  vera 
fou  but  gaylie  yet."  My  two  friends  and 
I  rode  soberly  down  the  Loch-side,  till  by 
came  a  Highlandman  at  the  gallop,  on  a 
tolerably  good  horse,  but  which  had  never 
known  the  ornaments  of  iron  or  leather 
We  scorned  to  be  out-galloped  by  a  High- 
landman, so  off  we  started,  whip  and 
spur.  My  companions,  though  seemingly 
gayly  mounted,  fell  sadly  astern  ;  but  my 
old  mare,  Jenny  Geddes,  one  of  the  Rosi- 
nante  family,  she  strained  past  the  High- 
landman in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  with 
the  hair-halter  :  just  as  I  was  passing 
him,  Donald  wheeled  his  horse,  as  if  to 
cross  before  me  to  mar  my  progress, 
when  down  came  his  horse,  and  threw 
his  rider's  hreekless  a — e  in  a  dipt  hedge  ; 
and  down  came  Jenny  Geddes  over  all, 
and  my  hardship  bet  ween  her  and  the 
Highlandman's  horse.  Jenny  Geddes 
trode  over  me  with  such  cautious  reve- 
rence, that  matters  were  not  so  bad  as 
might  well  have  been  expected  ;  so  I 
came  off  with  a  few  cuts  and  bruises,  and 
a  thorough  resolution  to  be  a  pattern  of 
sobriety  for  the  future. 

"  I  have  yet  fixed  on  nothing  with  re- 
spect to  the  serious  business  of  life.  I 
am,  just  as  usual,  a  rhyming,  mason-ma- 

*  Scotch  tunes. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


45 


king,  raking,  aimless,  idle  follow.  How- 
ever I  shall  somewhere  have  a  farm  soon. 
I  was  going  to  say,  a  wife  too  :  but  thai 
must  never  be  my  blessed  lot.  I  am  but 
a  younger  son  of  the  house  of  Parnassus, 
and  like  other  younger  sons  of  great  fami- 
lies, I  may  intrigue,  if  I  choose  to  run  all 
risks,  but  must  not  marry. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  almost  ruined  one 
source,  the  principal  one  indeed,  of  my 
former  happiness;  that  eternal  propen- 
sity I  always  had  to  fall  in  love.  My 
heart  no  more  glows  with  feverish  rap- 
ture. I  have  no  paradisical  evening  in- 
terviews stolen  from  the  restless  cares 
and  prying  inhabitants  of  this  weary 
world.  I  have  only  *  *  *  *.  This  last 
is  one  of  your  distant  acquaintances,  has 
a  fine  figure,  and  elegant  manners  ;  and 
in  the  train  of  some  great  folks  whom  you 
know,  has  seen  the  politest  quarters  in 
Europe.  I  do  like  her  a  good  deal  ;  but 
what  piques  me  is  her  conduct  at  the 
commencement  of  our  acquaintance.     I 

frequently  visited  her  when  I  was  in , 

and  after  passing  regularly  the  interme- 
diate degrees  between  the  distant  formal 
bow  and  the  familiar  grasp  round  the 
waist,  I  ventured  in  my  careless  way  to 
talk  of  friendship  in  rather  ambiguous 

terms  ;  and  after  her  return  to ,  I 

wrote  to  her  in  the  same  style.  Miss, 
construing  my  words  farther  I  suppose 
than  even  I  intended,  flew  off  in  a  tan- 
gent of  female  dignity  and  reserve,  like 
a  mountain-lark  in  an  April  morning  :  and 
wrote  me  an  answer  which  measured  me 
out  very  completely  what  an  immense 
way  I  had  to  travel  before  I  could  reach 
the  climate  of  her  favour.  But  I  am  an 
old  hawk  at  the  sport  ;  and  wrote  her 
such  a  cool,  deliberate,  prudent  reply,  as 
brought  my  bird  from  her  aerial  tower- 
ings,  pop  down  at  my  foot  like  corporal 
Trim's  hat. 

"  As  for  the  rest  of  my  acts,  and  my 
wars,  and  all  my  wise  sayings,  and  why 
my  mare  was  called  Jenny  Geddes ;  they 
shall  be  recorded  in  a  few  weeks  hence, 
at  Linlithgow,  in  the  chronicles  of  your 
memory,  by 

"  Robert  Burns." 


From  this  journey  Burns  returned  to 
his  friends  in  Ayrshire,  with  whom  he 
spent  the  month  of  July,  renewing  his 
friendships,   and  extending  hia  acquaint- 


ance throughout  the  country,  where  he 
was  now  very  generally  known  and  ad- 
mired. In  Augusl  lie  again  visited  Edin- 
burgh, whence  he  undertook  another  jour- 
ney towards  the  middle  of  this  month,  in 
company  with  Mr.  M.  Adair,  now  Dr. 
Adair,  of  Ilarrowgate,  of  which  this  gen- 
tleman has  favoured  us  with  the  follow- 
ing account. 

"  Burns  and  T  left  Edinburgh  together 
in  August,  1787.  We  rode  by  Linlith- 
gow and  Carron,  to  Stirling.  We  visited 
the  iron-works  at  Carron,  with  which  the 
poet  was  forcibly  struck.  The  resem- 
blance between  that  place,  and  its  inha- 
bitants, to  the  cave  of  Cyclops,  which 
must  have  occurred  to  every  classical 
reader,  presented  itself  to  Burns.  At 
Stirling  the  prospects  from  the  castle 
strongly  interested  him  ;  in  a  former  visit 
to  which,  his  national  feelings  had  been 
powerfully  excited  by  the  ruinous  and 
roofless  state  of  the  hall  in  which  the 
Scottish  parliaments  had  been  held.  His 
indignation  had  vented  itself  in  some  im- 
prudent, but  not  unpoetical  lines,  which 
had  given  much  offence,  and  which  he 
took  this  opportunity  of  erasing,  by  break- 
ing the  pane  of  the  window  at  the  inn  on 
which  they  were  written. 

"  At  Stirling  we  met  with  a  company  of 
travellers  from  Edinburgh,  among  whom 
was  a  character  in  many  respects  conge- 
nial with  that  of  Burns.  This  was  Nicol, 
one  of  the  teachers  of  the  High  Grammar- 
School  at  Edinburgh — the  same  wit  and 
power  of  conversation ;  the  same  fondness 
for  convivial  society,  and  thoughtlessness 
of  to-morrow,  characterized  both.  Jaco- 
bitical  principles  in  politics  were  common 
to  both  of  them ;  and  these  have  been  sus- 
pected, since  the  revolution  of  France,  to 
have  given  place  in  each,  to  opinions  ap- 
parently opposite.  I  regret  that  I  have 
preserved  no  memorabilia  of  their  conver- 
sation, either  on  this  or  on  other  occa- 
sions, when  I  happened  to  meet  them  to- 
gether. Many  songs  were  sung,  which  I 
mention  for  the  sake  of  observing,  that 
when  Burns  was  called  on  in  his  turn,  he 
was  accustomed,  instead  of  singing,  to  re- 
cite one  or  other  of  his  own  shorter  po- 
ems, with  a  tone  and  emphasis,  which, 
though  not  correct  or  harmonious,  were 
impressive  and  pathetic.  This  he  did  on 
the  present  occasion 

"  From  Stirling  we  went  next  morning 
through  the  romantic  and  fertile  vale  of 


40 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


Dovon  to  Harvieston  in  Clackmannan- 
Bhire,  then  inhabited  by  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
with  tlic  younger  part  of  whoso  family 
Burns  had  been  previously  acquainted. 
He  introduced  me  to  the  family,  and  there 
was  formed  my  first  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Hamilton's  eldest  daughter,  to  whom 
1  have  been  married  for  nine  years.  Thus 
was  I  indebted  to  Burns  for  a  connexion 
from  which  I  have  derived,  and  expect 
further  to  derive  much  happiness. 

"  During  a  residence  of  about  ten  days 
at  Harvieston,  we  made  excursions  to  vi- 
sit various  parts  of  the  surrounding  sce- 
nery, inferior  to  none  in  Scotland,  in  beau- 
ty, sublimity,  and  romantic  interest ;  par- 
ticularly Castle  Campbell,  the  ancient 
seat  of  the  family  of  Argyle ;  and  the  fa- 
mous Cataract  of  the  Devon,  called  the 
(  'n/i/ron  Linn ;  and  the  Rumbling  Bridge, 
a  single  broad  arch,  thrown  by  the  Devil, 
if  tradition  is  to  be  believed,  across  the 
river,  at  about  the  height  of  a  hundred 
feet  above  its  bed.  I  am  surprised  that 
none  of  these  scenes  should  have  called 
forth  an  exertion  of  Burns's  muse.  But 
I  doubt  if  he  had  much  taste  for  the  pic- 
turesque. I  well  remember,  that  the  la- 
dies at  Harvieston,  who  accompanied  us 
on  this  jaunt,  expressed  their  disappoint- 
menl  at  his  not  expressing  in  more  glow- 
ing and  fervid  language,  his  impressions 
of  the  Caldron  Linn  scene,  certainly  high- 
ly sublime,  and  somewhat  horrible. 

"  A  visit  to  Mrs.  Bruce,  of  Clackman- 
nan, a  lady  above  ninety,  the  lineal  de- 
scendant of  that  race  which  gave  the 
Scottish  throne  its  brightest  ornament, 
interested  his  feelings  more  powerfully. 
This  venerable  dame,  withcharactcristic- 
nl  dignity,  informed  me  on  my  observing 
thai  I  believed  shewas  descended  from  the 
family  of  Robert  Bruce, that  Robert  Bruce 
was  sprung  from  her  family.  Though  al- 
most deprived  of  speech  by  a  paralytic  af- 
fection, she  preserved  her  hospitality  and 
urbanity.  She  was  in  possession  of  the 
hero's  helmet  and  two-handed  sword,  with 
which  she  conferred  on  Burns  and  myself 
the  honour  of  knighthood,  remarking, 
that  she  had  a  bettor  right  to  confer  that 
title  than  some  people.  *  *  You  will  of 
course  conclude  that  the  old  lady's  politi- 
cal tenets  were  as  Jacobitical  as  the  po- 
et's,  a  conformity  which  contributed  not 
a  little  to  the  cordiality  of  our  reception 
and  entertainment. — She  gave  us  as  her 
first  toast  after  dinner,  Awa'  Uncos,  or 
Away  with  the  Strangers. — Who  these 


strangers  were,  you  will  readily  under- 
stand. Mrs.  A.  corrects  me  by  saying  it 
should  be  ffooi,  or  Hooi  iincoi,  a  sound 
used  by  shepherds  to  direct  their  dogs  to 
drive  away  the  sheep. 

"  We  returned  to  Edinburgh  by  Kin- 
ross (on  the  shore  of  Lochlevcn)  and 
Queen's-ferry.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
Burns  knew  nothing  of  poor  Michael 
Bruce,  who  was  then  alive  at  Kinross,  or 
had  died  there  a  short  while  before.  A 
meeting  between  the  bards,  or  a  visit  to 
the  deserted  cottage  and  early  grave  of 
poor  Bruce,  would  have  been  highly  in- 
teresting.* 

"  At  Dunfermline  we  visited  the  ruin- 
ed abbey  and  the  abbey  church,  now  con- 
secrated to  Presbyterian  worship.  Here 
I  mounted  the  cutty  stool,  or  stool  of  re- 
pentance, assuming  the  character  of  a 
penitent  for  fornication;  while  Burns  from 
the  pulpit  addressed  to  me  a  ludicrous  re- 
proof and  exhortation,  parodied  from  that 
which  had  been  delivered  to  himself  in 
Ayrshire,  where  he  had,  as  he  assured 
me,  once  been  one  of  seven  who  mounted 
the  seat  of  shame  together. 

"  In  the  church-yard  two  broad  flag- 
stones marked  the  grave  of  Robert  Bruce, 
for  whose  memory  Burns  had  more  than 
common  veneration.  He  knelt  and  kiss- 
ed the  stone  with  sacred  fervour,  and 
heartily  [suns  id  mos  erat)  execrated  the 
worse  than  Gothic  neglect  of  the  first  of 
Scottish  heroes,  "f 


The  surprise  expressed  by  Dr.  Adair, 
in  his  excellent  letter,  that  the  romantic 
scenery  of  the  Devon  should  have  failed 
to  call  forth  any  exertion  of  the  poet's 
muse,  is  not  in  its  nature  singular;  and 
the  disappointment  felt  at  his\not  express- 
ing in  more  glowing  language  his  emo- 
tions on  the  sight  of  the  famous  cataract 
of  that  river,  is  similar  to  what  was  felt 
by  the  friends  of  Burns  on  other  occa- 
sions of  the  same  nature.  Yet  the  infer- 
ence that  Dr.  Adair  seems  inclined  to 
draw  from  it,  that  lie  had  little  taste  for 
the  picturesque,  might  be  questioned, 
even  if  it  stood  ^incontroverted  by  other 
evidence.  The  muse  of  Burns  was  in  a 
high  degree  capricious  ;  she  came  uncall 

*  Bruco  died  some  years  before.    E. 
t  Extracted  from  a  letter  of  Dr.  Adair  to  the  Editor 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


47 


ed,  and  often  refused  to  attend  at  his  bid- 
ding. Of  all  the  numerous  subjects  sug- 
gested to  him  by  his  friends  and  corres- 
pondents,  there  is  scarcely  one  that  he 
adopted.  The  very  expectation  that  a 
partieidar  occasion  would  excite  the  en- 
ergies of  fancy,  if  communicated  to  Burns, 
seemed  in  him  as  in  other  poets,  destruc- 
tive of  the  effect  expected.  Hence  per- 
haps may  be  explained,  why  the  banks  of 
the  Devon  and  of  the  Tweed  form  no  part 
of  the  subjects  of  his  song. 

A  similar  train  of  reasoning  may  per- 
haps explain  the  want  of  emotion  with 
which  he  viewed  the  Caldron  Linn.  Cer- 
tainly there  are  no  affections  of  the  mind 
more  deadened  by  the  influence  of  pre- 
vious expectation,  than  those  arising  from 
the  sight  of  natural  objects,  and  more 
especially  of  objects  of  grandeur.  Minute 
descriptions  of  scenes,  of  a  sublime  na- 
ture, should  never  be  given  to  those  who 
are  about  to  view  them,  particularly  if 
they  are  persons  of  great  strength  and 
sensibility  of  imagination.  Language  sel- 
dom or  never  conveys  an  adequate  idea  of 
such  objects,  but  in  the  mind  of  a  great 
poet  it  may  excite  a  picture  that  far  tran- 
scends them.  The  imagination  of  Burns 
might  form  a  cataract,  in  comparison  with 
which  the  Caldron  Linn  should  seem  the 
purling  of  a  rill,  and  even  the  mighty  falls 
of  Niagara,  an  humble  cascade.* 

Whether  these  suggestions  may  assist 
in  explaining  our  Bard's  deficiency  of  im- 
pression on  the  occasion  referred  to,  or 
whether  it  ought  rather  to  be  imputed  to 
some  pre-occupation,  or  indisposition  of 
mind,  we  presume  not  to  decide;  but  that 
he  was  in  general  feelingly  alive  to  the 
beautiful  or  sublime  in  scenery,  may  be 
supported  by  irresistible  evidence.     It  is 

*  This  reasoning  might  be  extended,  with  some  mo- 
difications, to  objects  of  sight  of  every  kind.  To  have 
formed  before-hand  a  distinct  picture  in  the  mind,  of 
any  interesting  person  or  thing,  generally  lessens  the 
pleasure  of  the  first  meeting  with  them.  Though  this 
picture  be  not  superior,  or  even  equal  to  the  realty,  still 
it  can  never  be  expected  to  be  an  exact  resemblance  ; 
and  the  disappointment  felt  at  finding  the  object  some- 
thing different  from  what  was  expected,  interrupts  and 
diminishes  the  emotions  that  would  otherwise  be  pro- 
duced. In  such  cases  the  second  or  third  interview 
gives  more  pleasure  than  the  first— See  the  Elements 
of  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Mind,  by  Mr.  Stew- 
art, p.  484.  Such  publications  as  The  Guide  to  the 
Lakes,  where  every  scene  is  described  in  the  most  mi 
nute  manner,  and  sometimes  with  considerable  exag- 
geration of  language,  are  in  this  point  of  view  objec- 
tionable. 


true  this  pleasure  was  greatly  heighten- 
ed in  his  mind,  as  might  be  expected, 
when  combined  with  moral  emotions  of  a 
kind  with  which  it  happily  unites.  That 
under  this  association  Burns  contemplated 
the  scenery  of  the  Devon  with  the  eye  of 
a  genuine  poet,  some  lines  which  he  wrote 
at  this  very  period,  may  bear  witness.* 

The  different  journeys  already  men- 
tioned did  not  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
Burns.  About  the  beginning  of  Septem- 
ber, he  again  set  out  from  Edinburgh  on 
a  more  extended  tour  to  the  Highlands, 
in  company  with  Mr.  Nicol,  with  whom 
he  had  now  contracted  a  particular  inti- 
macy, which  lasted  during  the  remainder 
of  his  life.  Mr.  Nicol  was  of  Dumfries- 
shire, of  a  descent  equally  humble  with 
our  poet.  Like  him  he  rose  by  the 
strength  of  his  talents,  and  fell  by  the 
strength  of  his  passions.  He  died  in  the 
summer  of  1797.  Having  received  the 
elements  of  a  classical  instruction  at  his 
parish-school,  Mr.  Nicol  made  a  very  ra- 
pid and  singular  proficiency  ;  and  by  early 
undertaking  the  office  of  an  instructor 
himself,  he  acquired  the  means  of  enter- 
ing himself  at  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh. There  he  was  first  a  student  of 
theology,  then  a  student  of  medicine,  and 
was  afterwards  employed  in  the  assist- 
ance and  instruction  of  graduates  in  me- 
dicine, in  those  parts  of  their  exercises  in 
which  the  Latin  language  is  employed. 
In  this  situation  he  was  the  contempora- 
ry and  rival  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Brown, 
whom  he  resembled  in  the  particulars  of 
his  history,  as  well  as  in  the  leading  fea- 
tures of  his  character.  The  office  of  as- 
sistant-teacher in  the  High-school  being 
vacant,  it  was,  as  usual,  filled  up  by  com- 
petition; and  in  the  face  of  some  preju- 
dices, and,  perhaps,  of  some  well-founded 
objections,  Mr.  Nicol,  by  superior  learn- 
ing, carried  it  from  all  the  other  candi- 
dates. This  office  he  filled  at  the  period 
of  which  we  speak. 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  writers  of  Greece  and  Rome 
does  not  always  supply  an  original  want 
of  taste  and  correctness  in  manners  and 
conduct;  and  where  it  fails  of  this  effect, 
it  sometimes  inflames  the  native  pride  of 
temper,  which  treats  with  disdain  those 
delicacies  in  which  it  has  not  learned  to 

*  See  the  song  beginning, 
"  How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding  Devon." 
roems,  page  78. 


48 

excel.  Tt.  was  thus  with  the  fellow-tra- 
veller of  Burns.  Formed  by  nature  in  a 
model  of  greal  strength,  neither  his  per- 
son nor  his  manners  had  any  tincture  of 
taste  or  elegance ;  and  his  coarseness  was 
not  compensated  by  that  romantic  sensi- 
bility, and  those  towering  flights  of  ima- 
gination which  distinguished  the  conver- 
sation of  Burns,  in  the  blaze  of  whose  ge- 
nius all  the  deficiencies  of  his  manners 
were  absorbed  and  disappeared. 

Mr.  Nicol  and  our  poet  travelled  in  a 
postchaise,  which  they  engaged  for  the 
journey,  and  passing  through  the  heart 
of  the  Highlands,  streti  hed  northwards, 
about  ten  miles  beyond  Inverness.  There 
they  bent  their  course  eastward,  across 
the  island,  and  returned  by  the  shore  of 
the  German  sea  to  Edinburgh.  In  the 
course  of  this  tour,  some  particulars  of 
which  will  be  found  in  a  letter  of  our  bard, 
No.  XXX.  they  visited  a  number  of  re- 
markable scenes,  and  the  imagination  of 
Burns  was  constantly  excited  by  the  wild 
and  sublime  scenery  through  which  he 
passed.  Of  this  several  proofs  may  be 
found  in  the  poems  formerly  printed.* 
Of  the  history  of  one  of  these  poems,  The 
1  Jumble  Petition  of  Bruar  Water,  and  of 
the  bard's  visit  to  Athole  House,  some 
particulars  will  be  found  in  No.  XXIX  ; 
and  by  the  favour  of  Mr.  Walker  of  Perth, 
then  residing  in  the  family  of  the  Duke 
of  Athole,  we  are  enabled  to  give  the  fol- 
lowing additional  account  : 

"  On  reaching  Blair,  he  sent  me  notice 
of  his  arrival  (as  I  had  been  previously 
acquainted  with  him,)  and  I  hastened  to 
meet  him  at  the  inn.  The  Duke  to  whom 
he  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  was 
from  home  ;  but  the  Dutchess,  being  in- 
formed of  his  arrival,  gave  him  an  invita- 
tion to  sup  and  sleep  at  Athole  House. 
He  accepted  the  invitation;  but  as  the 
hour  of  supper  was  at  some  distance, 
begged  I  would  in  the  interval  be  his 
guide  through  the  grounds.  It  was  al- 
ready growing  dark;  yet  the  softened 
though  faint  and  uncertain  view  of  their 
beauties,  which  the  moonlight  afforded  us, 
I  eemed  exactly  suited  to  (Tic  Btate  of  his 
feelings  at  the  time.  I  had  often,  like 
others,  experienced  the  pleasures  which 

*  See  "  LinoB  on  scaring  some  water-fowl  in  Loch- 
Tnrit,  a  wild  scene  anions  tho' hills  of  Ochtcrtyre." 
"  Lines  written  with  a  Pencil  over  the  Chimney-piece, 
in  tin  Inn  at  Kenmore,  Taymoutn."  "  Lines  written 
with  a  pencil  standing  hy  the  fall  of  Fyers,  near  Locli- 
ness." 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


arise  from  the  sublime  or  elegant  land 
pcape,  but  I  never  saw  those  feelings  so 
intense  as  in  Burns.  When  we  reached 
8  rustic  but  on  the  river  Tilt,  where  it  is 
overhung  by  a  woody  precipice,  from 
which  i  hero  is  a  noble  water-fall,  he 
threw  himself  on  the  heathy  seat,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  a  tender,  abstracted, 
and  voluptuous  enthusiasm  of  imao-ina- 
tion.  1  cannot  help iJunking  it  might  have 
been  here  that  he  conceived  the  idea  of 
the  following  lines,  which  he  afterwards 
introduced  into  his  poem  on  Bruar  Wa- 
ter, when  only  fancying  such  a  combina- 
tion of  objects  as  were  now  present  to 
his  eye. 

Or,  by  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 
Mild,  chequering  through  the  trees, 

Rave  to  my  darkly-dashing  stream, 
Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 

"  It  was  with  much  difficulty  I  prevail- 
ed on  him  to  quit  this  spot,  and  to  be  in- 
troduced in  proper  time  to  supper. 

"  My  curiosity  was  great  to  see  how 
he  would  conduct  himself  in  company  so 
different  from  what  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to.*  His  manner  was  unembar- 
rassed, plain,  and  firm.  He  appeared  to 
have  complete  reliance  on  his  own  native 
good  sense  for  directing  his  behaviour. 
He  seemed  at  once  to  perceive  and  to  ap- 
preciate what  was  due  to  the  company 
and  to  himself,  and  never  to  forget  a  pro- 
per respect  for  the  separate  species  of 
dignity  belonging  to  each.  He  did  not 
arrogate  conversation,  but,  when  led  into 
it,  he  spoke  with  ease,  propriety,  and 
manliness.  He  tried  to  exert  his  abilities, 
because  he  knew  it  was  ability  alone  gave 
him  a  title  to  be  there.  The  Duke's  fine 
young  family  attracted  much  of  his  admi- 
ration ;  he  drank  their  healths  as  honest 
men  and  bonny  lasses,  an  idea  which  was 
much  applauded  by  the  company  and 
with  which  he  very  felicitously  closed  his 
pocm.f 

"  Next  day  I  took  a  ride  with  him 
through  some  of  the  most  romantic  parts 
of  that  neighbourhood,  and  was  highly 
gral  ified  by  his  conversation.  As  a  spe- 
cimen of  his  happiness  of  conception  and 
strength  of  expression,  I  will  mention  a 

*  In  the  preceding  winter,  Hums  had  been  in  com- 
panj  of  the  liiL'ln-Ht  rank  in  Edinburgh;  but  this  de- 
scription of  bis  manners  is  perfectly  applicable  to  his 
first  appearance  in  such  society. 

t  See  The  Humble  Petition  of  Ulnar  Water. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


40 


remark  which  ho  made  on  his  fellow-tra- 
veller, who  was  walking  at  the  time  a  tew 
paces  before  us.  Ho  was  a  man  of  a  ro- 
busl  bul  clumsy  person ;  and  while  Burns 
was  expressing  to  me  the  value  he  enter- 
tained tor  him  on  account  of  his  vigorous 
talents,  although  they  were  clouded  at 
times  by  coarseness  of  manners;  'in 
short,'  he  added,  '  his  mind  is  like  his 
body,  he  has  a  confounded  strong,  in- 
kneed  sort  of  a  soul.' 

"  Much  attention  was  paid  to  Burns 
both  before  and  after  the  Duke's  return, 
of  which  he  was  perfectly  sensible,  with- 
out being  vain  ;  and  at  his  departure  I 
recommended  to  him,  as  the  most  appro- 
priate return  he  could  make,  to  write 
some  descriptive  verses  on  any  of  the 
scenes  with  which  he  had  been  so  much 
delighted.  After  leaving  Blair,  he,  by 
the  Duke's  advice,  visited  the  Falls  of 
Bruar,  and  in  a  few  days  I  received  a 
letter  from  Inverness,  with  the  verses  en- 
closed."* 

It  appears  that  the  impression  made  by 
our  poet  on  the  noble  family  of  Athole, 
was  in  a  high  degree  favourable  ;  it  is 
certain  he  was  charmed  with  the  recep- 
tion he  received  from  them,  and  he  often 
mentioned  the  two  days  he  spent  at  Athole 
House  as  amongst  the  happiest  of  his  life. 
He  was  warmly  invited  to  prolong  his 
stay,  but  sacrificed  his  inclinations  to  his 
engagement  with  Mr.  Nicol ;  which  is 
the  more  to  be  regretted,  as  he  would 
otherwise  have  been  introduced  to  Mr. 
Dundas  (then  daily  expected  on  a  visit  to 
the  Duke,)  a  circumstance  which  might 
have  had  a  favourable  influence  on  Burns's 
future  fortunes.  At  Athole  House  he 
met,  for  the  first  time,  Mr.  Graham  of 
Fintry,  to  whom  he  was  afterwards  in- 
debted for  his  office  in  the  Excise. 

The  letters  and  poems  which  he  ad- 
dressed to  Mr.  Graham,  bear  testimony 
of  his  sensibility,  and  justify  the  supposi- 
tion, that  he  would  not  have  been  defi- 
cient in  gratitude  had  he  been  elevated 
to  a  situation  better  suited  to  his  disposi- 
tion and  to  his  talents,  f 

A  few  days  after  leaving  Blair  of  Athole, 
our  poet  and  his  fellow-traveller  arrived 

*  Extract  of  a  tetter  from  Mr.  Walker  to  Mr.  Cun- 
ningham.   See  Letter,  No.  XXIX. 

t  See  the  first  Epistle  to  Mr-  Graham,  soliciting  an 
employment  in  the  Excise,  Letter  No.  IA'1.  and  bis 
second  Epistle,  Poems   p.  Co. 


at  Fochabers.  In  the  course  of  the  pre- 
ceding winter  Bums  had  been  introduced 
to  the  Dutchess  of  Gordon  at  Edinburgh, 
and  presuming  on  this  acquaintance,  he 
proceeded  to  Gordon-Castle,  leaving  Mr. 
Nicol  at  the  inn  in  the  village.  At  the 
castle  our  poet  was  received  with  the  ut- 
most hospitality  and  kindness,  and  the 
family  being  about  to  sit  down  to  dinner, 
he  was  invited  to  take  his  place  at  table 
as  a  matter  of  course.  This  invitation 
he  accepted,  and  after  drinking  a  few 
glasses  of  wine,  he  rose  up,  and  proposed 
to  withdraw.  On  being  pressed  to  stay, 
he  mentioned  for  the  first  time,  his  en- 
gagement with  his  fellow-traveller :  and 
his  noble  host  offering  to  send  a  servant 
to  conduct  Mr.  Nicol  to  the  castle,  Burns 
insisted  on  undertaking  that  office  him- 
self. He  was,  however,  accompanied  by 
a  gentleman,  a  particular  acquaintance  of 
the  Duke,  by  whom  the  invitation  was 
delivered  in  all  the  forms  of  politeness. 
The  invitation  came  too  late ;  the  pride 
of  Nicol  was  inflamed  into  a  high  degree 
of  passion,  by  the  neglect  which  he  had 
already  suffered.  He  had  ordered  the 
horses  to  be  put  to  the  carriage,  being 
determined  to  proceed  on  his  journey 
alone  ;  and  they  found  him  parading  the 
streets  of  Fochabers,  before  the  door  of 
the  inn,  venting  his  anger  on  the  postil- 
lion, for  the  slowness  with  which  he  obey- 
ed his  commands.  As  no  explanation  nor 
entreaty  could  change  the  purpose  of  his 
fellow-traveller,  our  poet  was  reduced  to 
the  necessity  of  separating  from  him  en- 
tirely, or  of  instantly  proceeding  with 
him  on  their  journey,  fie  chose  the  last 
of  these  alternatives  ;  and  seating  him- 
self beside  Nicol  in  the  post-chaise  with 
mortification  and  regret,  he  turned  his 
back  on  Gordon  Castle  where  he  had 
promised  himself  some  happy  days.  Sen- 
sible, however,  of  the  great  kindness  of 
the  noble  family,  he  made  the  best  return 
in  his  power,  by  the  poem  beginning, 

"  Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains."* 

Burns  remained  at  Edinburgh  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  winter,  1787-8, 
and  again  entered  into  the  society  and 
dissipation  of  that  metropolis.  It  appears 
that  on  the  31st  day  of  December,  he  at- 
tended a  meeting  to  celebrate  the  birth- 
day of  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  Scot- 
tish race  of  kings,  the  late  unfortunate 
Prince    Charles    Edward.        Whatever 

*  This  information  is  extracted  from  a  letter  of  Dr. 
Couper  of  Fochabers,  to  the  Editor. 


50 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


might  have  been  the  wish  or  purpose  of 
the  original  institutors  of  this  annual 
meeting,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  the  gentlemen  of  whom  it  was  al 
this  time  composed,  were  not  perfectly 
loyal  to  the  King  on  t lie  throne.  It  is 
not  to  he  conceived  that  they  entertained 
any  hope  of,  any  wish  for,  the  restoration 
of  tlio  House  of  Stuart  ;  but,  over  their 
sparkling  wine,  they  indulged  the  gene- 
rous feelings  which  the  recollection  of 
fallen  greatness  is  calculated  to  inspire  ; 
and  commemorated  the  heroic  valour 
which  strove  to  sustain  it.  in  vain — valour 
worthy  of  a  nobler  cause,  and  a  happier 
fortune.  On  this  occasion  our  bard  took 
upon  himself  the  office  of  poet-laureate, 
and  produced  an  ode,  which  though  de- 
ficient in  the  complicated  rhythm  and 
polished  versification  that  such  composi- 
tions require,  might,  on  a  fair  competition, 
where  energy  of  feelings  and  of  expression 
were  alone  in  question,  have  won  the 
butt  of  Malmsey  from  the  real  laureate 
of  that  day. 

The  following  extracts  may  serve  as  a 
specimen  : 


False  flatterer,  Hope,  away! 
Nor  think  to  lure  us  as  in  days  of  yore  i 

We  solemnize  this  sorrowing  natal  day, 
To  prove  our  loyal  truth — we  can  no  more : 

And,  owning  Heaven's  mysterious  sway, 
Submissive,  low,  adore. 

Ye  honoured,  mighty  dead  ! 
Who  nobly  perished  in  the  glorious  cause1, 
Your  King,  your  country,  and  her  laws! 

From  great  Dundee,  who  smiling  victory  led, 
And  fell  a  martyr  in  her  aims, 
(What  breast  of  northern  ice  but  warms?) 

To  bold  Balmerino's  undying  name, 

Wbosesouloffire,  lighted  al  Heaven's  high  flame, 
Deserves  the  proudest  wreath  departed  heroes  claim.* 

Nor  unrevenged  your  fate  shall  be, 

It  only  lags  i  In1  fatal  hour; 
Your  blood  shall  with  incessant  cry 

Awake  at  i-ist  the  unsparing  power. 
As  from  the  cliff,  with  thundering  course, 

The  snowy  ruin  smoki  -  along, 

With  doubling  s|>cnl  and  gathering  force, 
Till  deep  it  crashing  whelms  the  cottage  in  the  vale  ! 
So  Vengeance    *    *    * 

*  In  the  first  part  of  this  ode  there  in  some  beautiful 
imagery,  which  the  poet  afterwards  Interwove  in  a 
liappiei  manner  in  the  Chevalier'' s Lament.  (See  Letter, 
No.  IiXV.)  But  if  there  were  no  other  reasons  for 
omitting  10  print  i  he  entire  poem,  the  want  of  originali- 
ty would  be  sufficient.    A  considerable  part  of  it  is  a 


In  relating  the  incidents  of  our  poet's 
life  in  Edinburgh,  we  ought  to  have  men- 
tioned the  sentiments  of  respect  and  sym- 
pathy with  which  he  traced  out  the  grave 
of  his  predecessor  Ferguson,  over  whose 
aslns  in  the  Canongate  church-yard,  he 
obtained  leave  to  erect  an  humble  monu- 
ment, which  will  be  viewed  by  reflecting 
minds  with  no  common  interest,  and 
which  will  awake  in  the  bosom  of  kindred 
genius,  many  a  high  emotion.*  Neither 
should  we  pass  over  the  continued  friend- 
ship he  experienced  from  a  poet  then  liv- 
ing, the  amiable  and  accomplished  Black- 
lock. — To  his  encouraging  advice  it  was 
owing  (as  has  already  appeared)  that 
Burns  instead  of  emigrating  to  the  West 
Indies,  repaired  to  Edinburgh.  He  re- 
ceived him  there  with  all  the  ardour  of 
affectionate  admiration  ;  he  eagerly  in- 
troduced him  to  the  respectable  circle  of 
his  friends  ;  he  consulted  his  interest  ; 
he  blazoned  his  fame  ;  he  lavished  upon 
him  all  the  kindness  of  a  generous  and 
feeling  heart,  into  which  nothing  selfish 
or  envious  ever  found  admittance.  Among 
the  friends  to  whom  he  introduced  Burns 
was  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  to  whom 
our  poet  paid  a  visit  in  the  Autumn  of 
1787,  at  his  delightful  retirement  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Stirling,  and  on  the 
hanks  of  the  Teith.  Of  this  visit  we  have 
the  following  particulars  : 

"  I  have  been  in  the  company  of  many 
men  of  genius,"  says  Mr.  Ramsay,  "  some 
of  them  poets;  but  never  witnessed  such 
flashes  of  intellectual  brightness  as  from 
him,  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  sparks 
of  celestial  fire  !  I  never  was  more  de- 
lighted, therefore,  than  with  his  company 
for  two  days,  tete-a-tete.  In  a  mixed 
company  I  should  have  made  little  of  him ; 
for,  in  the  gamester's  phrase,  he  did  not 
always  know  when  to  play  off  and  when 
to  play  on.  *  *  *  I  not  only  proposed  to 
him  the  writing  of  a  play  similar  to  the 
Gentle  Shepherd,  qualem  decet  esse  soro~ 
rem.,  but  Scottish  Georgics  a  subject  which 
Thomson  has  by  no  means  exhausted  in 
his  Seasons.  Wha1  beautiful  landscapes 
of  rural  life  and  manners  might  not  have 
been  expected  from  a  pencil  so  faithful 
and  forcible  as  his,  which  could  have  ex- 
hibited scenes  as  familiar  and  interesting 
as  those  in  the   Gentle  Shepherd,  which 

kind  of  rant,  for  which  indeed  precedent  may  be  cited 
iii  various  other  birth-day,  odes,  but  with  which  it  is 
impossible  to  go  along. 

*  Si  e  I. 'tn  rs  No.  XIX.  and  XX.  where  the  Epitaph 
will  be  found,  &c. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


51 


every  one  who  knows  our  swains  in  their 
unadulterated  state,  instantly  recognises 
as  true  to  nature.  But  to  have  executed 
either  of  these  plans,  steadiness  and  ab- 
straction from  company  were  wanting, 
not  talents.  When  I  asked  him  whether 
the  Edinburgh  Literati  had  mended  his 
poems  by  their  criticisms,  'Sir,'  said  he, 
1  these  gentlemen  remind  me  of  some  spin- 
al its  in  my  country,  who  spin  their  thread 
so  fine  that  it  is  neither  fit  for  weft  nor 
woof.'  He  said  he  had  not  changed  a 
word  except  one  to  please  Dr.  Blair."* 

Having  settled  with  his  publisher,  Mr. 
Creech,  in  February,  1788,  Burns  found 
himself  master  of  nearly  five  hundred 
pounds,  after  discharging  all  his  expenses. 
Two  hundred  pounds  he  immediately  ad- 
vanced to  his  brother  Gilbert,  who  had 
taken  upon  himself  the  support  of  their 
aged  mother,  and  was  struggling  with 
n  any  difficulties  in  the  farm  of  Mossgiel. 
Willi  the  remainder  of  this  sum,  and 
Borne  farther  eventful  profits  from  his 
poems,  he  determined  on  settling  him- 
self for  life  in  the  occupation  of  agricul- 
ture, and  took  from  Mr.  Miller,  of  Dal- 
swinton,  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Nith,  six  miles  above 
Dumfries,  on  which  he  entered  at  Whit- 
sunday, 1788.  Having  been  previously 
recommended  to  the  Board  of  Excise,  his 
name  had  been  put  on  the  list  of  candi- 
dates for  the  humble  office  of  a  gauger  or 
exciseman  ;  and  he  immediately  applied 
to  acquiring  the  information  necessary 
for  filling  that  office,  when  the  honoura- 
ble Board  might  judge  it  proper  to  employ 
him.  He  expected  to  be  called  into  ser- 
vice in  the  district  in  which  his  farm  was 
situated,  and  vainly  hoped  to  unite  with 
success  the  labours  of  the  farmer  with  the 
duties  of  the  exciseman. 

When  Burns  had  in  this  manner  ar- 
ranged his  plans  for  futurity,  his  generous 
heart  turned  to  the  object  of  his  most  ar- 
dent attachment,  and  listening  to  no  con- 
siderations but  those  of  honour  and  affec- 
tion, he  joined  with  her  in  a  public  decla- 
ration of  marriage,  thus  legalizing  their 
union,  and  rendering  it  permanent  for 
life. 

*  Extract  of  a  letter  from  Mr.  Hams  ay  hi  tho  Editor. 
This  incorrigibility  of  Burns  extended,  however,  only 
to  his  poems  printed  before  he  arrived  in  Edinburgh; 
for  in  regard  to  his  unpublished  poems,  he  was  amena- 
ble to  criticism,  of  which  many  proofs  might  be  given. 
Sec  some  remarks  on  this  subject,  in  the  Appendix. 

R 


Before  Burns  was  known  in  Edinburgh, 
a  specimen  of  his  poetry  had  recommend- 
ed him  to  Mr.  Miller  of  Dalswinton.  Un- 
derstanding that  he  intended  to  resume 
the  life  of  a  farmer,  Mr.  Miller  had  in- 
vited him,  in  the  spring  of  1787,  to  view 
his  estate  in  Nithsdale,  offering  him  at 
the  same  time  the  choice  of  any  of  his 
farms  out  of  lease,  at  such  a  rent  as  Burns 
and  his  friends  might  judge  proper.  It 
was  not  in  the  nature  of  Burns  to  take  an 
undue  advantage  of  the  liberality  of  Mr. 
Miller.  He  proceeded  in  this  business, 
however,  with  more  than  usual  delibera- 
t  ion.  Having  made  choice  of  the  farm  of 
Ellisland,  he  employed  two  of  his  friends, 
skilled  in  the  value  of  land,  to  examine  it, 
and  with  their  approbation  offered  a  rent 
to  Mr.  Miller,  which  was  immediately 
accepted.  It  was  not  convenient  for  Mrs. 
Burns  to  remove  immediately  from  Ayr- 
shire, and  our  poet  therefore  took  up  his 
residence  alone  at  Ellisland,  to  prepare 
for  the  reception  of  his  wife  and  children, 
who  joined  him  towards  the  end  of  the 
year. 

The"  situation  in  which  Burns  now 
found  himself  was  calculated  to  awaken 
reflection.  The  different  steps  he  had  of 
late  taken  were  in  their  nature  highly  im- 
portant, and  might  be  said  to  have  in  some 
measure,  fixed  his  destiny.  He  had  be- 
come a  husband  and  a  father ;  he  had  en- 
gaged in  the  management  of  a  considera- 
ble farm,  a  difficult  and  laborious  under- 
taking ;  in  his  success  the  happiness  of 
his  family  was  involved  ;  it  was  time, 
therefore,  to  abandon  the  gayety  and  dis- 
sipation of  which  he  had  been  too  much 
enamoured  ;  to  ponder  seriously  on  the 
past,  and  to  form  virtuous  resolutions  re- 
specting the  future.  That  such  was  ac- 
tually the  state  of  his  mind,  the  following 
extract  from  his  common-place  book  may 
bear  witness  : 

Ellisland,  Sunday,  14th  June,  1788. 
"  This  is  now  the  third  day  that  I  have 
been  in  this  country.  '  Lord,  what  is 
man!'  What  a  bustling  little  bundle  of 
passions,  appetites,  ideas,  and  fancies  ! 
and  what  a  capricious  kind  of  existence 
he  has  here  !  *  *  *  There  is  indeed  an 
elsewhere,  where,  as  Thomson  says,  vir* 
tue  sole  survives. 

'  Tell  us  ye  dead 
Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret 
What  'tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  1 

A  little  time 

Will  make  us  wise  as  you  are,  and  us  close.' 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


"  I  am  such  a  coward  in  life,  so  tired  of 
the  service,  that  I  would  almost  at  any 
tune,  with  Milton's  Adam,  '  gladly  lay  mc 
in  my  mother's  lap,  and  be  at  peace.' 

"  Rut  a  wife  and  children  hind  mc  to 
struggle  with  the  stream,  till  some  sud- 
den squall  shall  overset  the  silly  vessel ; 
or  in  the  listless  return  of  years,  its  own 
craziness  reduce  it  to  a  wreck.  Farewell 
now  to  those  giddy  follies,  those  varnish- 
ed vices,  which,  though  half-sanctified  by 
the  bewitching  levity  of  wit  and  humour, 
are  at  best  but  thriftless  idling  with  the 
precious  current  of  existence  ;  nay,  often 
poisoning  the  whole,  that,  like  the  plains 
of  Jericho,  the  icaler  is  nought,  and  the 
ground  barren,  and  nothing  short  of  a 
supwnaturally  gifted  Elisha  can  ever  af- 
ter heal  the  evils. 

"  Wedlock,  the  circumstance  that  buc- 
kles me  hardest  to  care,  if  virtue  and  re- 
ligion were  to  be  any  thing  with  me  but 
names,  was  what  in  a  few  seasons  I  must 
have  resolved  on  ;  in  my  present  situation 
it  was  absolutely  necessary.  Humanity, 
generosity,  honest  pride  of  character,  jus- 
tice to  my  own  happiness  for  after-life,  so 
far  as  it  could  depend  (which  it  surely  will 
a  great  deal)  on  internal  peace;  all  these 
joined  their  warmest  suffrages,  their  most 
powerful  solicitations,  with  a  rooted  at- 
tachment, to  urge  the  step  I  have  taken. 
Nor  have  I  any  reason  on  her  part  to  re- 
pent it.  I  can  fancy  how,  but  have  never 
seen  where,  I  could  have  made  a  better 
choice.  Come,  then,  let  me  act  up  to  my 
favourite  motto,  that  glorious  passage  in 
Young — 

"  On  reason  build  resolve, 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man  !" 

Under  the  impulse  of  these  reflections. 
Burns  immediately  engaged  in  rebuilding 
the  dwelling-house  on  his  farm,  which,  in 
the  state  he  found  it,  was  inadequate  to 
the  accommodation  of  his  family-  On  this 
occasion,  lie  himself  resumed  at  times  the 
occupation  of  a  labourer,  and  found  nei- 
ther his  strength  nor  his  skill  impaired. 
Pleased  with  surveying  the  grounds  he 
wasaboul  to  cultivate,  and  with  the  rear- 
ing of  a  building  thai  should  give  shelter 
to  [lis  wife  and  children,  and,  as  he  fond- 
ly hoped,  to  his  own  gray  hairs,  senti- 
ments of  independence  buoyed  up  his 
mind,  pictures  of  domestic  contenl  and 
peace  rose  on  his  imagination;  and 
days  passed  away,  as  he  himself  infon  ie 


us,  the  most  tranquil,  if  not  the  happiest, 
which  he  had  ever  experienced.* 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  at  this  critical 
period  of  bis  life,  our  poet  was  without 
the  society  of  his  wife  and  children.  A 
great  change  had  taken  place  in  bis  situa- 
tion ;  his  old  habits  were  broken ;  and 
the  new  circumstances  in  which  lie  was 
placed  were  calculated  to  give  a  new  di- 
rection to  his  thoughts  and  conduct. f  But 
his  application  to  the  cares  and  labours 
of  his  farm  was  interrupted  by  several 
visits  to  his  family  in  Ayrshire ;  and  as 
the  distance  was  too  great  for  a  single 
day's  journey,  he  generally  spent  a  night 
at  an  inn  on  the  road.  On  such  occasions 
he  sometimes  fell  into  company,  and  for- 
got the  resolutions  he  had  formed.  In  a 
little  while  temptation  assailed  him  nearer 
home. 

His  fame  naturally  drew  upon  him  the 
attention  of  his  neighbours,  and  he  soon 
formed  a  general  acquaintance  in  the  dis- 
trict in  which  lie  lived.  The  public  voice 
had  now  pronounced  on  the  subject  of  his 
talents;  the  reception  he  had  met  with  in 
Edinburgh  had  given  him  the  currency 
which  fashion  bestows,  he  had  surmount- 
ed the  prejudices  arising  from  his  humble 
birth,  and  he  was  received  at  the  table  of 
the  gentlemen  of  Nithsdale  with  welcome, 
with  kindness,  and  even  with  respect. 
Their  social  parties  too  often  seduced  him 
from  his  rustic  labour  and  his  rustic  fare, 
overthrew  t  lie  unsteady  fabric  of  his  reso- 
lutions, and  inflamed  those  propensities 
which  temperance  might  have  weakened, 
and  prudence  ultimately  suppressed.}  It 
was  not  long,  therefore,  before  Burns  be- 
gan to  view  his  farm  with  dislike  and  des- 
pondence, if  not  with  disgust. 

Unfortunately  he  had  for  several  years 
looked  to  an  office  in  the  Excise  as  a  cer- 
tain means  of  livelihood,  should  his  other 

*  Animated  sentiments  of  any  kind,  almost  always 
gave  rise  in  our  poet  to  some  production  of  his  muse- 
Hi-  sentiments  i>n  tliis  occasion  were  in  part  expressed 
by  the  vigorous  and  characteristic,  though  not  very 
delicate  song,  beginning, 

"  I  hae  a  wife  o'  my  ain, 
I'll  partake  wi'  nac  body ;' 

t  Mrs.  Burns  was  about  to  be  confined  in  child  bedi 
and  the  house  at  Ellisland  was  rebuilding. 

i  The  poem  of  The  mastic  (Poem,  p.  74  )  celebrates 
a  Bacchanalian  contest  among  three  gentlemen  of 
Nithsdale,  where  Burns  appears  as  umpire.  Mr.  Rid- 
di  II  died  before  our  Bard,  and  some  elegiac  verses  to 
bis  memory  will  be  found  entitled,  Sonnet  on  the  deati 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


63 


expectations  fail.  As  has  already  been 
mentioned,  ho  had  been  recommended  to 

the  Board  of  Excise,  and  had  received  the 
instructions  neccssaryfor  sucli  a  situation. 
He  now  applied  to  be  employed;  and  by 
the  interest  of  Mr.  Graham  ofFintry,  was 
appointed  exciseman,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly 
called,  gauger,  of  the  district  in  which  he 
tired.  His  farm  was  after  this,  in  a  great 
measure  abandoned  to  servants,  while  he 
betook  himself  to  the  duties  of  his  new 
appointment. 

Ho  might,  indeed,  still  be  seen  in  the 
spring,  directing  his  plough,  a  labour  in 
which  he  excelled ;  or  with  a  white  sheet, 
containing  his  seed-corn,  slung  across  his 
shoulders,  striding  with  measured  steps 
along  his  turned  up  furrows,  and  scatter- 
ing the  grain  in  the  earth.  But  his  farm 
no  longer  occupied  the  principal  part  of 
his  care  or  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  at 
Ellisland  that  he  was  now  in  general  to  be 
found.  Mounted  on  horseback,  this  high- 
minded  poet  was  pursuing  the  defaulters 
of  the  revenue,  among  the  hills  and  vales 
of  Nithsdale,  his  roving  eye  wandering 
over  the  charms  of  nature,  and  muttering 
his  wayward  fancies  as  he  moved  along. 

"  I  had  an  adventure  with  him  in  the 
year  1790,"  says  Mr.  Ramsay,  of  Ochter- 
tyre,  in  a  letter  to  the  editor,  "  when  pass- 
ing through  Dumfriesshire,  on  a  tour  to 
the  South,  with  Dr.  Stewart  of  Luss.  See- 
ing him  pass  quickly,  near  Closeburn,  I 
said  to  my  companion,  '  that  is  Burns.' 
On  coming  to  the  inn,  the  hostler  told  us 
he  would  be  back  in  a  few  hours  to  grant 
permits;  that  where  he  met  with  any 
thing  seizable,  he  was  no  better  than  any 
other  gauger;  in  every  thing  else,  that 
he  was  perfectly  a  gentleman.  After 
leaving  a  note  to  be  delivered  to  him 
on  his  return,  I  proceeded  to  his  house, 
being  curious  to  see  his  Jean,  &c.  I  was 
much  pleased  with  his  uxor  Sabina  qualis, 
and  the  poet's  modest  mansion,  so  Tinlike 
the  habitation  of  ordinary  rustics.  In  the 
evening  he  suddenly  bounced  in  upon  us, 
and  said,  as  he  entered,  I  come,  to  use  the 
words  of  Shakspeare,  stewed  in  haste.  In 
fact  he  had  ridden  incredibly  fast  after 

of  Robert  Riddcll.  From  him,  and  from  all  the  mem- 
bers of  his  family,  Burns  received  not  kindness  only, 
but  friendship ;  and  the  society  he  met  in  general  at 
Friar's  Carse  was  calculated  to  improve  his  habits  as 
well  as  his  manners.  Mr.  Fergusson  of  Craigdarroch, 
*o  well  known  for  his  eloquence  and  social  talents, 
died  soon  after  our  poet.  Sir  Robert  Laurie,  the  third 
person  in  the  drama,  survives,  and  has  since  been  en- 
gaged in  a  contest  of  a  bloodier  nature.  Long  may  lie 
live  to  fight  the  battles  of  his  country  !  (1799.) 


receiving  my  note.  We  fell  into  conver- 
sation direct  [y,  and  soon  got  into  the  mare 
magnum  of  poetry.  lie  told  me  that  he 
had  now  gotten  a  story  for  a  Drama,  which 
he  was  to  call  Rob  Jitacqueckcm's  Erlshon, 
from  a  popular  story  of  Robert  Bruce  be- 
ing defeated  on  the  water  of  Caern,  when 
the  heel  of  his  boot  having  loosened  in  his 
flight,  he  applied  to  Robert  Macquechan 
to  fit  it ;  who,  to  make  sure,  ran  his  awl 
nine  inches  up  the  king's  heel.  We  were 
now  going  on  at  a  great  rate,  when  Mr. 

S popped  in  his  head,  which  put  a 

stop  to  our  discourse,  which  had  become 
very  interesting.  Yet  in  a  little  while  it 
was  resumed  ;  and  such  was  the  force  and 
versatility  of  the  bard's  genius,  that  he 

made  the  tears  run  down  Mr.  S 's 

cheeks,  albeit  unused  to  the  poetic  strain. 
*  *  *  From  that  time  we  met  no  more, 
and  I  was  grieved  at  the  reports  of  him 
afterwards.  Poor  Burns  !  we  shall  hardly 
ever  see  his  like  again.  He  was,  in  trut  h, 
a  sort  of  comet  in  literature,  irregular  in  its 
motions,  which  did  not  do  good  propor- 
tioned to  the  blaze  of  light  it  display-ed.' 

In  the  summer  of  1791,  two  English 
gentlemen,  who  had  before  met  with  him 
in  Edinburgh,  paid  a  visit  to  him  at  Ellis- 
land.  On  calling  at  the  house  they  were 
informed  that  he  had  walked  out  on  the 
banks  of  the  river;  and  dismounting  from 
their  horses,  they  proceeded  in  search  of 
him.  On  a  rock  that  projected  into  the 
stream,  they  saw  a  man  employed  in  ang- 
ling, of  a  singular  appearance.  He  had  a 
cap  made  of  a  fox's  skin  on  his  head,  a 
loose  great  coat  fixed  round  him  by  a  belt, 
from  which  depended  an  enormous  High- 
land broad-sword.  It  was  Burns.  He  re- 
ceived them  with  great  cordiality,  and 
asked  them  to  share  his  humble  dinner — 
an  invitation  which  they  accepted.  On 
the  table  they  found  boiled  beef,  with  ve- 
getables, and  barley-broth,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Scotland,  of  which  they  partook 
heartily.  After  dinner,  the  bard  told  them 
ingenuously  that  he  had  no  wine  to  offer 
them,  nothing  better  than  Highland  whis- 
key, a  bottle  of  which  Mrs.  Burns  set  on 
the  board.  He  produced  at  the  same  time 
his  punch-bowl  made  of  Inverary  marble  ; 
and,  mixing  the  spirit  with  water  and  su- 
gar, filled  their  glasses,  and  invited  them 
to  drink.*  The  travellers  were  in  haste, 
and  besides,  the  flavour  of  the  whiskey  to 
their  southron  palates  was  scarcely  tolera- 

*  This  bowl  was  made  of  the  lapis  nllnri.i,  the  stone 
of  which  Inverary-house  is  built,  the  mansion  of  the 
family  of  Argyle- 


54 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ble ;  but  the  generous  poet  offered  them 
his  best,  and  his  ardent  hospitality  they 
found  it  impossible  to  resist.  Burns  was 
in  his  happiest  mood,  and  the  charms  of 
his  conversation  wore  altogether  fascina- 
ting, lie  ranged  over  a  great  variety  of 
topics,  illuminating  whatever  ho  touched. 
He  related  the  talcs  of  his  infancy  and  of 
his  youth;  he  recited  some  of  the  gayest 
and  some  of  the  tendercst  of  his  poems; 
in  the  wildest  of  his  strains  of  mirth,  he 
threw  in  some  touches  of  melancholy,  and 
spread  around  him  the  electric  emotions 
of  his  powerful  mind.  The  Highland 
whiskey  improved  in  its  flavour;  the  mar- 
ble bowl  was  again  and  again  emptied  and 
replenished ;  the  guests  of  our  poet  for- 
got the  flight  of  time,  and  the  dictates  of 
prudence  :  at  the  hour  of  midnight  they 
lost  their  way  in  returning  to  Dumfries, 
and  coidd  scarcely  distinguish  it  when  as- 
sisted by  the  morning's  dawn.* 

Besides  his  duties  in  the  excise  and  his 
social  pleasures,  other  circumstances  in- 
terfered with  the  attention  of  Burns  to 
his  farm.  He  cngagedt  in  the  formation 
of  a  society  for  purchasing  and  circulat- 
ing books  among  the  farmers  of  his  neigh- 
bourhood, of  which  he  undertook  the 
management  ;f  and  he  occupied  himself 
occasionally  in  composing  songs  for  the 
musical  work  of  Mr.  Johnson,  then  in  the 
course  of  publication.  These  engage- 
ments, useful  and  honourable  in  them- 
selves, contributed,  no  doubt,  to  the  ab- 
straction of  his  thoughts  from  the  busi- 
ness of  agriculture. 

The  consequences  may  be  easily  ima- 
gined. Notwithstanding  the  uniform 
prudence  and  good  management  of  M  is. 
Burns,  and  though  his  rent  was  moder- 
ate and  reasonable,  our  poet  found  it  con- 
venient, if  not  necessary,  to  resign  his 
farm  to  Mr.  Miller  ;  after  having  occu- 
pied it  three  years  and  a  half.  His  office 
in  the  excise  had  originally  produced 
about  fifty  pounds  per  annum.  Having 
acquitted  himself  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
board,  he  had  been  appointed  to  a  new  dis- 
trict, the  emoluments  of  which  rose  to 
about  seventy  pounds  per  annum.  1  [oping 
to  support  himself  and  his  family  on  this 
humble  income  til]  promotion  should  reach 
him,  he  disposed  of  his  stock  and  of  his 
crop  on  EUisland  by  public  auction,  and 
removed  to  a  small  house  which  he  bad 

*  Given  from  the  information  of  one  of  the  party. 
t  See  No.  LXXXVIII. 


taken  in  Dumfries,  about  the  end  of  the 
year  1791. 

Hitherto  Burns,  though  addicted  to 
excess  in  social  parties,  had  abstained 
from  the  habitual  use  of  strong  liquors, 
and  his  constitution  had  not  suffered  any 
permanent  injury  from  the  irregularities 
of  his  conduct.  In  Dumfries,  temptations 
to  the  sin  that  so  easily  beset  him,  continu- 
ally presented  themselves ;  and  his  irregu- 
larities grew  by  degrees  into  habits. 
These  temptations  unhappily  occurred 
during  his  engagements  in  the  business 
of  his  office,  as  well  as  during  Ins  hours 
of  relaxation  ;  and  though  he  clearly  fore- 
saw the  consequences  of  yielding  to  them, 
his  appetites  and  sensations,  which  could 
not  prevent  the  dictates  of  his  judgment, 
finally  triumphed  over  the  powers  of  his 
will.  Yet  this  victory  was  not  obtained 
without  many  obstinate  struggles,  and  at 
times  temperance  and  virtue  seemed  to 
have  obtained  the  mastery.  Besides  his 
engagements  in  the  excise,  and  the  so- 
ciety into  which  they  led,  many  circum- 
stances contributed  to  the  melancholy 
fate  of  Burns.  His  great  celebrity  made 
him  an  object  of  interest  and  curiosity  to 
strangers,  and  few  persons  of  cultivated 
minds  passed  through  Dumfries  without 
attempting  to  see  our  poet,  and  to  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  his  conversation.  As  he 
could  not  receive  them  under  his  own 
humble  roof,  these  interviews  passed  at 
the  inns  of  the  town,  and  often  terminated 
in  those  excesses  which  Burns  sometimes 
provoked,  and  was  seldom  able  to  resist. 
And  among  the  inhabitants  of  Dumfries 
and  its  vicinity,  there  were  never  want- 
ing persons  to  share  his  social  pleasures ; 
to  lead  or  accompany  him  to  the  tavern  ; 
to  partake  in  the  wildest  sallies  of  his  wit  ; 
to  witness  the  strength  and  the  degrada- 
tion of  his  genius. 

Still,  however,  he  cultivated  the  societ  y 
of  persons  of  taste  and  of  respectability, 
and  in  their  company  could  impose  on  him- 
self the  restraints  of  temperance  and  deco- 
rum. Nor  was  his  muse  dormant.  In 
the  four  years  which  he  lived  in  Dumfries, 
he  produced  many  of  his  beautiful  lyrics, 
though  it  does  not  appear  that  he  at- 
tempted any  poem  of  considerable  length. 
During  this  time  he  made  several  excur- 
sions into  the  neighbouring  country,  of 
one  of  which,  through  Galloway,  an  ac- 
count is  preserved  ina  letterof  Mr.  Syme, 
written  soon  after ;  which,  as  it  gives  an 
animated  picture  of  him  by  a  correct  and 


THE  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


53 


masterly  hand,  we  shall  present  to  the 
reader. 

"I  got  Burns  a  gray  Highland  shelty 
to  ride  on.  We  dined  the  first  day,  27th 
July,  1793,  at  Glendenwynes  of  Parton  !  a 
beautiful  situation  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee. 
In  the  evening  we  walked  out,  and  ascend- 
ed a  gentle  eminence,  from  which  we  had 
as  line  a  view  of  Alpine  scenery  as  can  well 
be  imagined.  A  delightful  soft  evening 
showed  all  its  wilder  as  well  as  its  grander 
graces.  Immediately  opposite,  and  with- 
in a  mile  of  us,  we  saw  Airds,  a  charming 
romantic  place,  where  dwelt  Low,  the 
author  of  Mary  weep  no  more  for  mc* 
This  was  classical  ground  for  Burns.  He 
viewed  "  the  highest  hill  which  rises  o'er 
the  source  of  Dee  ;"  and  would  have  staid 
till  "the  passing  spirit,"  had  appeared, 
had  we  not  resolved  to  reach  Kenmorc 
t  hat  night.  We  arrived  as  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gordon  were  sitting  down  to  supper. 

"  Here  is  a  genuine  baron's  seat.  The 
castle,  an  old  building,  stands  on  a  large 
natural  moat.  In  front,  the  river  Ken 
winds  for  several  miles  through  the  most 
fertile  and  beautiful  hnlm,\  till  it  expands 
into  a  lake  twelve  miles  long,  the  banks 
of  which,  on  the  south,  present  a  fine  and 
6oft  landscape  of  green  knolls,  natural 
wood,  and  here  and  there  a  gray  rock. 
On  the  north,  the  aspect  is  great,  wild, 
and,  I  may  say,  tremendous.  In  short,  I 
can  scarcely  conceive  a  scene  more  ter- 
ribly romantic  than  the  castle  of  Ken- 
more.  Burns  thinks  so  highly  of  it,  that 
he  meditates  a  description  of  it  in  poetry. 
Indeed,  I  believe  he  has  begun  the  work. 
We  spent  three  days  with  Mr.  Gordon, 
whose  polished  hospitality  is  of  an  origi- 
nal and  endearing  kind.  Mrs.  Gordon's 
lap-dog,  Echo,  was  dead.  She  would 
have  an  epitaph  for  him.  Several  had 
been  made.  Burns  was  asked  for  one. 
This  was  setting  Hercules  to  his  distaff. 
He  disliked  the  subject ;  but  to  please  the 

*  A  beautiful  and  well-known  ballad,  which  begins 
thus — 

"The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill, 
Which  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 

And,  from  the  eastern  summit,  shed 
Its  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree. 

t  The  level  low  ground  on  the  banks  of  a  river  or 
stream.  This  word  should  be  adopted  from  the  Scot- 
tish, as,  indeed  ought  several  others  of  the  same  na- 
ture That  dialect  is  singularly  copious  and  exact  in 
Uic  denominations  of  natural  objects.    E. 


lady  he  would  try. 
duced 


Here  is  what  he  pro- 


"  In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng, 

Your  heavy  ins  deplore  ! 
Now  half  extinct  your  powers  of  song, 

Sweet  Echo  is  no  more. 

Ye  jarring  screeching  thing?  aroud, 

Scream  your  discordant  joys  ! 
Now  half  youi  din  of  tuneless  song 
With  Echo  silent  lies." 

"  We  left  Kenmore,  and  went  to  Gate- 
house, I  took  him  the  moor-road,  where 
savage  and  desolate  regions  extended 
wide  around.  The  sky  was  sympathetic 
with  the  wretchedness  of  the  soil  ;  it  he- 
came  lowering  and  dark.  The  hollow 
winds  sighed,  the  lightnings  gleamed,  the 
thunder  rolled.  The  poet  enjoyed  the 
awful  scene — he  spoke  not  a  word,  hut 
seemed  wrapt  in  meditation.  In  a  little 
while  the  rain  began  to  fall ;  it  poured 
in  floods  upon  us.  For  three  hours  did  the 
wild  elements  rumble  their  belly  full  upon 
our  defenceless  heads.  Oh !  Oh !  'twas 
foul.  We  got  utterly  wet ;  and  to  re- 
venge ourselves  Burns  insisted  at  Gate- 
house on  our  getting  utterly  drunk. 

"  From  Gatehouse,  we  went  next  day 
to  Kirkcudbright,  through  a  fine  country. 
But  here  I  must  tell  you  that  Burns  had 
got  a  pair  of  jemmy  boots  for  the  journey, 
which  had  been  thoroughly  wet,  and  which 
had  been  dried  in  such  manner  that  it 
was  not  possible  to  get  them  on  again. 
The  brawny  poet  tried  force,  and  tore 
them  to  shreds.  A  whiffling  vexation  of 
this  sort  is  more  trying  to  the  temper  than 
a  serious  calamity.  We  were  going  to  St. 
Mary's  Isle,  the  seat  of  the  Earl  of  Selkirk, 
and  the  forlorn  Burns  wTas  discomfited  at 
the  thought  of  his  ruined  boots.  A  sick 
stomach,  and  a  head-ache,  lent  their  aid, 
and  the  man  of  verse  was  quite  accable. 
T  attempted  to  reason  with  him.  Mercy 
on  us  !  how  he  did  fume  with  rage  !  No- 
thing could  reinstate  him  in  temper.  I 
tried  various  expedients,  and  at  last  hit 
on  one  that  succeeded.  I  showed  him 
the  house  of  *  *  *,  across  the  bay  of 
Wigton.  Against  *  *  *,  with  whom 
ho  was  offended,  he  expectorated  his 
spleen,  and  regained  a  most  agreeable 
temper.  He  was  in  a  most  epigrammatic 
humour  indeed !  He  afterwards  fell  on 
humbler  game.  There  is  one  *  *  * 
whom  he  does  not  love.  He  had  a  pass- 
ing blow  at  him 


56 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


"  When ,  deceased,  to  the  devil  went  down, 

■Twas  nothing  would  serve  him  but  Satan's  own 

crown  : 
Thy  fool's  bead,  quoth  Satan,  that  crown  shall  wear 

never, 
I  grant  thou'rt  as  wicked,  but  not  quilcso  clever." 

K  Well,  I  am  to  bring  you  to  Kirkcud- 
bright along  with  our  poet,  without  boots. 
I  carried  I  he  torn  ruins  across  my  saddle 

in  spite  of  his  inhumations,  and  in  con- 
tempt of  appearances  ;  and  what  is  more, 
Lord  Selkirk  carried  them  in  his  coach 
to  Dumfries.  He  insisted  they  were 
worth  mending. 

"  We  readied  Kirkcudbright  about  one 
o'clock.  I  had  promised  that  we  should 
dine  with  one  of  the  first  men  in  our 
country,  J.  Dalzell.  But  Burns  was  in  a 
wild  obstreperous  humour,  and  swore  he 
would  not  dine  where  he  should  be  under 
the  smallest  restraint.  We  prevailed, 
therefore,  on  Mr.  Dalzell  to  dine  with  us 
in  the  inn,  and  had  a  very  agreeable  party. 
In  the  evening  we  set  out  for  St.  Mary's 
Isle.  Robert  had  not  absolutely  regained 
the  milkiness  of  good  temper,  and  it  oc- 
curred once  or  twice  to  him,  as  he  rode 
along,  that  St.  Mary's  Isle  was  the  seat 
of  a  Lord  ;  yet  that  Lord  was  not  an  aris- 
tocrat, at  least  in  the  sense  of  the  word. 
We  arrived  about  eight  o'clock,  as  the 
family  were  at  tea  and  coffee.  St.  Ma- 
ry's Isle  is  one  of  the  most  delightful 
places  that  can,  in  my  opinion,  be  formed 
by  t lie  assemblage  of  every  soft,  but  not 
tame  object  which  constitutes  natural  and 
cultivated  beauty.  But  not  to  dwell  on 
its  external  graces,  let  me  tell  you  that 
we  found  all  the  ladies  of  the  family  (all 
beautiful)  at  homo,  and  some  strangers  ; 
and  among  others  who  but  Urbani  !  The 
Italian  sun<r  us  many  Scottish  songs,  ac- 
companied with  instrumental  music.  The 
two  young  ladies  of  Selkirk  sung  also. 
We  bad  the  song  df  Lord  Gregory,  which 
I  asked  for,  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
calling  on  Burns  to  recite  his  ballad  to 
thai  tune.  He  did  recite  it;  and  such 
was  the  effect  that  a  dead  silence  ensued. 
It  was  such  a  silence  as  a  mind  of  feel- 
ing naturally  preserves  when  it  is  touched 
with  that  enthusiasm  which  banishes 
every  other  thought  but  the  contempla- 
tion ami  indulgence  of  the  bj  mpathy  pro- 
duced. Burns's  Lord  Gregory  is.  in  my 
opinion,  a  most  beautiful  and  affecting 
ballad.  The  fastidious  critic  may  per- 
haps say  some  of  the  sentiments  and  im- 
agery are  (it'tciii  elevated  ;i  kind  for  such 
a   style    of   composition  ;    for   instance, 


"  Thou  bolt  of  heaven  that  passest  by  ;" 
and  "  Ye,  mustering  thunder,"  &c. ;  but 
this  is  a  cold-blooded  objection,  which 
will  be  said  rather  thsoafelt. 

"  We  enjoyed  a  most  happy  evening  at. 
Lord  Selkirk's.  We  had,  in  every  sense 
of  the  word,  a  feast,  in  which  our  minds 
and  our  senses  were  equally  gratified. 
The  poet  was  delighted  with  his  company, 
and  acquitted  himself  to  admiration.  The 
lion  that  had  raged  so  violently  in  the 
morning,  was  now  as  mild  and  gentle  as 
a  lamb.  Next  day  we  returned  to  Dum- 
fries, and  so  ends  our  peregrination.  I 
told  you,  that  in  the  midst  of  the  storm, 
on  the  wilds  of  Kenmore,  Burns  was  rapt 
in  meditation.  What  do  you  think  he 
was  about  ?  He  was  charging  the  Eng- 
lish army  along  with  Bruce,  at  Bannock- 
burn.  He  was  engaged  in  the  same  man- 
ner on  our  ride  liome  from  St.  Mary's 
Isle,  and  I  did  not  disturb  him.  Next. 
day  he  produced  me  the  following  address 
of  Bruce  to  his  troops,  and  gave  me  a 
copy  for  Dalzell." 

"  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  &c 

Burns  had  entertained  hopes  of  pro- 
motion in  the  excise  ;  but  circumstances 
occurred  which  retarded  their  fulfilment, 
and  which  in  his  own  mind,  destroyed  all 
expectation  of  their  being  ever  fulfilled* 
The  extraordinary  events  which  ushered 
in  the  revolution  of  France,  interested 
the  feelings,  and  excited  the  hopes  of 
men  in  every  corner  of  Europe.  Preju- 
dice and  tyranny  seemed  about  to  disap- 
pear from  among  men,  and  the  day-star 
of  reason  to  rise  upon  a  benighted  world. 
In  the  dawn  of  this  beautiful  morning, 
the  genius  of  French  freedom  appealed 
on  our  southern  horizon  with  the  coun- 
tenance of  an  angel,  but  speedily  assum- 
ed the  features  of  a  demon,  and  vanished 
in  a  shower  of  blood. 

Though  previously  a  j  a  dilute  and  a 
cavalier,  Burns  had  shared  in  the  original 
hopes  entertained  of  this  astonishing  re- 
volution, by  ardent  and  beiie\ulent  minds. 
The  novelty  and  the  hazard  ^\'  the  at- 
tempt meditated  by  the  First,  or  Con- 
stituent Assembly,  served  rather,  it  is 
probable,  to  recommend  it  to  his  daring 
temper;  and  the  unfettered  scope  pro- 
posed to  be  given  to  every  kind  of  talents, 
was  doubtless  gratifying  to  the  feelings  of 
conscious  but  indignanl  genius.  Burns 
foresaw  not  the  mighty  ruin  1  hat,   was  to 


THE  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


57 


be  the  immediate  consequence  of  an  enter- 
prise, which  on  its  commencement,  pro- 
mised so  much  happiness  to  the  human 
race.  And  even  after  the  career  of  guilt 
and  of  blood  commenced,  lie  could  not 
immediately,  it  may  be  presumed,  with- 
draw his  partial  gaze  from  a  people  who 
had  so  lately  breathed  the  sentiments  of 
universal  peace  and  benignity  ;  or  oblite- 
rate in  liis  bosom  the  pictures  of  hope  and 
of  happiness  to  which  those  sentiments 
had  given  birth.  Under  these  impres- 
sions, he  did  not  always  conduct  himself 
with  the  circumspection  and  prudence 
which  his  dependant  situation  seemed  to 
demand.  He  engaged  indeed  in  no  popu- 
lar associations,  so  common  at  the  time 
of  which  we  speak  :  but  in  company  he 
did  not  conceal  his  opinions  of  public 
measures,  or  of  the  reforms  required  in 
the  practice  of  our  government  ;  and 
sometimes  in  his  social  and  unguarded 
moments,  he  uttered  them  with  a  wild 
and  unjustifiable  vehemence.  Informa- 
tion of  this  was  given  to  the  Board  of 
Excise,  with  the  exaggerations  so  gene- 
ral in  such  cases.  A  superior  officer  in 
that  department  was  authorised  to  inquire 
into  his  conduct.  Burns  defended  him- 
self in  a  letter  addressed  to  one  of  the 
Board,  written  with  great  independence 
of  spirit,  and  with  more  than  his  accus- 
tomed eloquence.  The  officer  appointed  to 
inquire  into  his  conduct  gave  a  favourable 
report.  His  steady  friend,  Mr.  Graham  of 
Fintry ,  interposed  his  good  offices  in  his  be- 
half;  and  the  imprudent  ganger  was  suf- 
fered to  retain  his  situation,  but  given  to  un- 
derstand that  his  promotion  was  deferred, 
and  must  depend  on  his  future  behaviour. 

"  This  circumstance  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  the  mind  of  Burns.  Fame 
exaggerated  his  misconduct,  and  repre- 
sented him  as  actually  dismissed  from  his 
office  ;  and  this  report  induced  a  gentle- 
man of  much  respectability  to  propose  a 
subscription  in  his  favour.  The  offer 
was  refused  by  our  poet  in  a  letter  of 
great  elevation  of  sentiment,  in  which  he 
gives  an  account  of  the  whole  of  this 
transaction,  and  defends  himself  from  the 
imputation  of  disloyal  sentiments  on  the 
one  hand,  and  on  the  other,  from  the 
charge  of  having  made  submissions  for 
the  sake  of  his  office,  unworthy  of  his 
character. 

"  The  partiality  of  my  countrymen,"  he 
observes,  "  has  brought  me  forward  as  a 
man  of  genius,  and  has  given  me  a  cha- 


racter to  support.  Tn  the  poet  I  have 
avowed  manly  and  independent  senti- 
ments, which  1  hope  have  been  found  in 
the  man.  Reasons  id' no  less  weight  than 
the  support  of  a  wife  and  children,  have 
pointed  out  my  present  occupation  as  the 
only  eligible  line  of  life  within  my  reach. 
Still  my  honest  fame  is  my  dearest  con- 
cern, and  a  thousand  times  have  I  trem- 
bled at  the  idea  of  the  degrading  epithets 
that  malice  or  misrepresentation  may  affix 
to  my  name.  Often  in  blasting  anticipa- 
tion have  I  listened  to  some  future  hack- 
ney scribbler,  with  the  heavy  malice  of 
savage  stupidity,  exultingly  asserting  that 
Burns,  notwithstanding  the  Fanfaronnade 
of  independence  to  be  found  in  his  works, 
and  after  having  been  held  up  to  public 
view,  and  to  public  estimation,  as  a  man 
of  some  genius,  yet,  quite  destitute  of  re- 
sources within  himself  to  support  his  bor- 
rowed dignity,  dwindled  into  a  paltry  ex- 
ciseman, and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his  in- 
significant existence  in  the  meanest  of 
pursuits,  and  among  the  lowest  of  mankind. 

"  In  your  illustrious  hands,  Sir,  permit 
me  to  lodge  my  strong  disavowal  and  de- 
fiance of  such  slanderous  falsehoods. 
Burns  was  a  poor  man  from  his  birth,  and 
an  exciseman  by  necessity  ;  but — I  will 
say  it  !  the  sterling  of  his  honest  worth 
poverty  could  not  debase,  and  his  inde- 
pendent British  spirit,  oppression  might 
bend,  but  could  not  subdue." 

It  was  one  of  the  last  acts  of  his  life  to 
copy  this  letter  into  his  book  of  manu- 
scripts accompanied  by  some  additional 
remarks  on  the  same  subject.  It  is  not 
surprising,  that  at  a  season  of  universal 
alarm  for  the  safety  of  the  constitution,  the 
indiscreet  expressions  of  a  man  so  power- 
ful as  Burns,  should  have  attracted  notice. 
The  times  certainly  required  extraordina- 
ry vigilance  in  those  intrusted  with  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  government,  and  to 
ensure  the  safety  of  the  constitution  was 
doubtless  their  first  duty.  Yet  generous 
minds  will  lament  that  their  measures  of 
precaution  should  have  robbed  the  ima- 
gination of  our  poet  of  the  last  prop  on 
which  his  hopes  of  independence  rested  ; 
and  by  embittering  his  peace,  have  aggra- 
vated those  excesses  which  were  soon  to 
conduct  him  to  an  untimely  grave. 

Though  the  vehemence  of  Burns's  tem- 
per, increased  as  it  often  was  by  stimu- 
lating liquors,  might  lead  him  into  many 
improper    and    unguarded    expressions, 


58 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


there  seems  no  reason  to  doubt  of  his  at- 
tachment to  our  mixed  form  of  govern- 
ment. In  his  common-place  book,  where 
he  could  have  no  temptation  to  disguise, 
are  the  following  sentiments. — "What- 
ever might  be  my  sentiments  of  republics, 
ancient  or  modern,  as  to  Britain,  I  ever 
abjured  the  idea.  A  constitution,  which 
in  its  original  principles,  experience  has 
proved  to  be  every  way  fitted  for  our  hap- 
piness, it  would  be  insanity  to  abandon 
for  an  untried  visionary  theory."  In  con- 
formity to  these  sentiments,  when  the 
pressing  nature  of  public  affairs  called,  in 
1795,  tor  a  general  arming  of  the  people, 
Burns  appeared  in  the  ranks  of  the  Dum- 
fries volunteers,  and  employed  his  poetical 
talents  in  stimulating  their  patriotism  ;* 
and  at  this  season  of  alarm,  he  brought 
forward  a  hymn,f  worthy  of  the  Grecian 
muse,  when  Greece  was  most  conspicuous 
for  genius  and  valour. 

Though  by  nature  of  an  athletic  form, 
Burns  had  in  his  constitution  the  peculi- 
arities and  delicacies  that  belong  to  the 
temperament  of  genius.  He  was  liable, 
from  a  very  early  period  of  life,  to  that  in- 
terruption in  the  process  of  digestion, which 
arises  from  deep  and  anxious  thought,  and 
which  is  sometimes  the  effect  and  some- 
times  the  cause  of  depression  of  spirits. 
Connected  with  this  disorder  of  the  sto- 
mach, there  was  a  disposition  to  head- 
ache, affecting  more  especially  the  tem- 
ples and  eye-balls,  and  frequently  accom- 
panied by  violent,  and  irregular  movements 
of  the  heart.  Endowed  by  nature  with 
great  sensibility  of  nerves,  Burns  was,  in 
his  corporeal,  as  well  as  in  his  mental  sys- 
tem, liable  to  inordinate  impressions;  to 
fever  of  body  as  well  as  of  mind.  This 
predisposition  to  disease,  which  strict 
temperance  in  diet,  regular  exercise,  and 
sound  sleep,  might,  have  subdued,  habits 
of  a  very  different  nature  strengthened 
and  inflamed.  Perpetually  stimulated  by 
alcohol  in  one  or  o\  her  ofits  various  forms, 
the  inordinate  actions  of  the  circulating 

*  See  Toem  entitled  The  Dumfries  Volunteers. 

t  The  Pong  of  Death,  Poems,  p.  83.  This  poem  was 
written  in  1791.  It  was  printed  in  Johnson's  Musical 
Museum.  The  poet  bad  an  Intention,  In  the  latter  pari 
of  his  life,  of  printing  ii  separately,  eel  to  music,  but 
was  advised  a<;ain.-u  it,  nr  at  least  discouraged  from  it. 
'I'll.-  martial  ardout  which  rose  so  high  afterwards,  mi 
the  threatened  Invasion,  bad  not   Hum   acquired  the 

'' neces  ary  to  give  popularity  to  this  noble  poem ; 

which  In  the  I'.ilitor,  sfcins  more  calculated  to  invigo- 
rate tin-  spirit  of  defence,  In  a  season  of  r.  -ii  and  press- 
ing danger,  than  any  production  of  modern  limes. 


system  became  at  length  habitual;  the 
process  of  nutrition  was  unable  to  sup- 
ply the  waste,  and  the  powers  of  life  be- 
gan to  fail.  Upwards  of  a  year  before  his 
death,  there  was  an  evident  decline  in  our 
poet's  personal  appearance,  and  though 
his  appetite  continued  unimpaired,  he  w  as 
himself  sensible  that  his  constitution  was 
sinking.  In  his  moments  of  thought  he 
reflected  with  the  deepest  regret  on  hi.-, 
fatal  progress,  clearly  foreseeing  t  he  goal 
towards  which  he  was  hastening,  without 
the  strength  of  mind  necessary  to  stop,  or 
even  to  slacken  his  course.  His  temper 
now  became  more  irritable  and  gloomy  ; 
he  fled  from  himself  into  society,  often  ol 
the  lowest  kind.  And  in  such  company, 
that  part  of  the  convivial  scene,  in  which 
wine  increases  sensibility  and  excites  be- 
nevolence, was  hurried  over,  to  reach  the 
succeeding  part,  over  which  uncontrolled 
passion  generally  presided.  He  who  suf- 
fers the  pollution  of  inebriation,  how  shall 
he  escape  other  pollution  ?  But  let  us  re- 
frain from  the  mention  of  errors  over 
which  delicacy  and  humanity  draw  the 
veil. 

In  the  midst  of  all  his  wanderings,  Burns 
met  nothing  in  his  domestic  circle  hut 
gentleness  and  forgiveness,  except  in  the 
gnawings  of  his  own  remorse.  He  ac- 
knowledged his  transgressions  to  the  wife 
of  his  bosom,  promised  amendment,  and 
again  and  again  received  pardon  for  his 
offences.  But  as  the  strength  of  his  body 
decayed,  his  resolution  became  fecit  ler, and 
habit  acquired  predominating  strength. 

From  October,  1795,  to  the  .Tanuary 
following,  an  accidental  complaint  con- 
fined him  to  the  house.  A  few  days  af- 
ter he  began  to  go  abroad,  he  dined  at  a 
tavern,  and  returned  home  about  three 
o'clock  in  a  very  cold  morning,  benumbed 
and  intoxicated.  This  was  followed  by 
an  attack  of  rheumatism,  which  confined 
him  about  a  week.  His  appetite  imw 
began  to  fail;  his  hand  shook,  and  his 
voice  faltered  on  any  exertion  or  emo- 
tion. His  pulse  became  weaker  and  more 
rapid,  and  pain  in  the  larger  joints,  and  in 
the  bands  and  feet,  deprived  bint  of  the 
enjovinent  of  refreshing  sleep.  Too  much 
dejected  in  his  spirits,  and  too  well  aware 
of  his  real  situation  to  entertain  hopes  of 
recovery,  lie  was  ever  musing  on  the  ap- 
proaching desolation  of  his  family,  and 
his  spirits  sunk  into  a  uniform  gloom. 

It  was  hoped  by  some  of  his  friends, 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


5D 


that  if  he  could  live  through  the  months 
of  spring,  the  succeeding  season  might 
restore  him.  But  they  were  disappointed. 
The  genial  beams  of  the  sun  infused  no 
vigour  into  his  languid  frame :  the  sum- 
mer wind  blew  upon  him,  but  produced 
no  refreshment.  About  the  latter  end  of 
June  he  was  advised  to  go  into  the  coun- 
try, and  impatient  of  medical  advice,  as 
well  as  of  every  species  of  control,  he  de- 
termined for  himself  to  try  the  effects  of 
bathing  in  the  sea.  For  this  purpose  he 
took  up  his  residence  at  Brow,  in  Annan- 
dale,  about  ten  miles  east  of  Dumfries,  on 
the  shore  of  the  Solway-Firth. 

It  happened  that  at  that  time  a  lady 
with  whom  he  had  been  connected  in 
friendship  by  the  sympathies  of  kindred 
genius,  was  residing  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood.*  Being  informed  of  his 
arrival,  she  invited  him  to  dinner,  and 
sent  her  carriage  for  him  to  the  cottage 
where  he  lodged,  as  he  was  unable  to 
walk. — "  I  was  struck,"  says  this  lady  (in 
a  confidential  letter  to  a  friend  written 
soon  after,)  l<  with  his  appearance  on  en- 
tering the  room.  The  stamp  of  death  was 
imprinted  on  his  features.  He  seemed 
already  touching  the  brink  of  eternity. 
His  first  salutation  was,  '  Well,  Madam, 
have  you  any  commands  for  the  other 
world  ?'  I  replied,  that  it  seemed  a  doubt- 
ful case  which  of  us  should  be  there  soon- 
est, and  that  I  hoped  he  would  yet  live  to 
write  my  epitaph.  (I  was  then  in  a  bad 
state  of  health.)  He  looked  in  my  face 
with  an  air  of  great  kindness,  and  express- 
ed his  concern  at  seeing  me  look  so  ill, 
with  his  accustomed  sensibility.  At  table 
he  ate  little  or  nothing,  and  he  complain- 
ed of  having  entirely  lost  the  tone  of  his 
stomach.  We  had  a  long  and  serious 
conversation  about  his  present  situation, 
and  the  approaching  termination  of  all 
his  earthly  prospects.  He  spoke  of  his 
death  without  any  of  the  ostentation  of 
philosophy,  but  with  firmness  as  well  as 
feeling,  as  an  event  likely  to  happen  very 
soon  ;  and  which  gave  him  concern  chiefly 
from  leaving  bis  four  children  so  young 
and  unprotected,  and  his  wife  in  so  inter- 
esting a  situation — in  hourly  expectation 
of  lying  in  of  a  fifth.  He  mentioned,  with 
seeming  pride  and  satisfaction,  the  promis- 
ing genius  ol'his  eldest  son,  and  the  flat- 
tering marks  of  approbation  he  had  re- 
ceived from  his  teachers,  and  dwelt  par- 
ticularly on  his  hopes  of  that  boy's  future 

•  For  a  character  of  tliialaily,  see  letter,  No.  CXXIX. 
R.  2 


conduct  and  merit.  His  anxiety  for  his 
family  seemed  to  hang  heavy  upon  him, 
and  the  more  perhaps  from  the  reflection 
that  ho  had  not  done  them  all  the  justice 
he  was  so  well  qualified  to  do.  Passing 
from  this  subject,  he  showed  great  con- 
cern about  the  care  of  his  literary  fame, 
and  particularly  the  publication  of  his 
posthumous  works.  He  said  he  was  well 
aware  that  his  death  would  occasion  some 
noise,  and  that  every  scrap  of  his  writing 
would  be  revived  against  him  to  the  in- 
jury of  his  future  reputation;  that  letters 
and  verses  written  with  unguarded  and 
improper  freedom,  and  which  he  earnestly 
wished  to  have  buried  in  oblivion,  would 
be  handed  about  by  idle  vanity  or  malevo- 
lence, when  no  dread  of  his  resentment 
would  restrain  them,  or  prevent  the  cen- 
sures of  shrill-tongued  malice,  or  the  in- 
sidious sarcasms  of  envy,  from  pouring 
forth  all  their  venom  to  blast  his  fame. 

"  He  lamented  that  he  had  written  many 
epigrams  on  persons  against  whom  he  en- 
tertained no  enmity,  and  whose  characters 
he  should  be  sorry  to  wound  ;  and  many 
indifferent  poetical  pieces,  which  he  fear- 
ed would  now,  with  all  their  imperfections 
on  their  head,  be  thrust  upon  the  world. 
On  this  account  he  deeply  regretted  hav- 
ing deferred  to  put  his  papers  in  a  state 
of  arrangement,  as  he  was  now  quite  in- 
capable of  the  exertion." — The  lady  goes 
on  to  mention  many  other  topics  of  a  pri- 
vate nature  on  which  he  spoke. — "  The 
conversation,"  she  adds,  "  was  kept  up 
with  great  evenness  and  animation  on  his 
side.  I  had  seldom  seen  his  mind  greater 
or  more  collected.  There  was  frequently 
a  considerable  degree  of  vivacity  in  his 
sallies,  and  they  would  probably  have  had 
a  greater  share,  had  not  the  concern  and 
dejection  I  could  not  disguise,  damped  the 
spirit  of  pleasantry  he  seemed  not  unwil- 
ling to  indulge. 

"  We  parted  about  sunset  on  the  even- 
ing of  that  day  (the  5th  July,  1796  ;)  the 
next  day  I  saw  him  again,  and  we  parted 
to  meet  no  more  !" 

At  first  Burns  imagined  bathing  in  the 
sea  had  been  of  benefit  to  him :  the  pains 
in  his  limbs  were  relieved ;  but  this  was 
immediately  followed  by  a  new  attack  of 
fever.  When  brought  back  to  his  own 
house  in  Dumfries,  on  the  18th  of  July, 
he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand  upright. 
At  this  time  a  tremor  pervaded  his  frame : 
his  tongue  was  parched,  and  his  mind 


CO 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


sunk  into  delirium,  when  not  roused  by 
conversation.  On  the  second  and  third 
day  the  fever  increased,  and  his  strength 
diminished.    *  hi  the  fourth,  the  suffi 

of   this   great   but    ill-fated  genius,   were 

terminated;  and  a  life  was  closed  in  which 
virtue  and  passion  had  been  at  perpetual  va- 
riance.* 

The  death  of  Burns  made  a  strong  and 
general  impression  on  all  who  had  inter- 
ested themselves  in  his  character,  and  es- 
pecially on  the  inhabitants  of  the  town 
and  county  in  which  he  had  spent  the 
latter  years  of  his  life.  Flagrant  as  his 
follies  and  errors  had  been,  they  had  not 
deprived  him  of  the  respect  ami  regard 
entertained  for  the  extraordinary  powers 
of  his  genius,  and  the  trenerous  qualities 
of  his  heart.  The  Gentlemen-Volunteers 
of  Dumfries  determined  to  bury  their  il 
lustrious  associate  with  military  lionours, 
and  every  preparation  was  made  to  ren 
der  this  last  service  solemn  and  impres- 
sive. The  Fencible  Infantry  of  Angus- 
shire,  and  the  regiment  of  cavalry  of  the 
Cinque  Ports,  at  that  time  quartered  in 
Dumfries,  offered  their  assistance  on  this 
occasion;  the  principal  inhabitants  of  the 
town  and  neighbourhood  determined  to  walk 
in  the  funeral  procession  ;  and  a  vast  con 
course  of  persons  assembled,  some  of  them 
from  a  considerable  distance,  to  witness 
the  obsequies  of  the  Scottish  Bard.  On 
the  evening  of  the  25th  of  July,  the  re 
mains  of  Burns  were  removed  from  his 
house  to  the  Town-Hall,  and  the  funeral 
took  place  on  the  succeeding  day.  A  party 
of  the  volunteers,  selected  to  perform  the 
military  duty  in  the  church-yard,  stationed 
themselves  in  the  front  of  the  procession, 
with  their  arms  reversed;  the  main  body 
of  the  corps  surrounded  and  supported  the 
coffin,  on  which  were  placed  the  hat  and 
sword  of  their  friend  and  fellow-soldier; 
the  numerous  body  of  attendants  ranged 
themselves  in  the  rear;  while  the  Fenci- 
ble regiments  of  infantry  and  cavalry  lined 
the  streets  from  the  Town-Hall  to  the  bu- 
rial ground  in  the  Southern  church-yard, 
a  distance  of  more  than  half  a  mile.  The 
whole  procession  moved  forward  to  that 
sublime  and  affecting  strain  of  music,  the 
hi  ml  March  in  Saul;  and  three  volleys 
fired  over  his  grave,  marked  the  return  of 
Burns  to  his  parent  earth!  The  spectacle 
was  in  a  high  degree  grand  and  solemn, 

*  The  particulars  respecting  the  illness  and  death 
of  Burns  were  obligingly  furnished  by  Ur.  .Maxwell, 
iln;  physician  who  attended  him. 


and  accorded  with  the  general  sentiments7 
of  sympathy  and  sorrow  which  the  occasion 
had  called  forth. 

It  was  an  allecting  circumstance,  that, 
on  the  morning  of  the  day  of  her  hus- 
band's  funeral.  .Mrs.  Burns  was  undergoing 
the  pains  of  labour;  and  that  during  the 
solemn  service,  we  have  just  been  describ- 
ing, the  posthumous  son  of  our  poet  was 
born.  This  infant  boy,  who  received  the 
name  of  Maxwell,  was  nol  destined  to  a 
long  life.  He  has  already  become  an  in- 
habitant (it'  the  same  grave  with  his  cele- 
brated father.  The  lour  other  children  of 
our  poet,  ai!  sons,  (the  eldest  at  that  time 
about  ten  years  of  age)  yet  survive,  and 
give  every  promise  of  prudence  and  virtue 
that  can  be  expected  from  their  tender 
years.  They  remain  under  the  care  of 
their  affectionate  mother  in  Dumfries,  and 
are  enjoying  the  means  of  education  which 
the  excellent  schools  of  that  town  afford; 
the  teachers  of  which,  in  their  conduct  to 
the  children  of  Burns,  do  themselves  greal 
honour.  On  this  occasion  the  name  of 
Mr.  Wythe  deserves  to  be  particularly 
mentioned,  himself  a  poet,  as  well  as  a  man 
of  science.* 

Burns  died  in  great  poverty ;  but  the 
independence  of  his  spirit  and  the  exem- 
plary prudence  of  his  wife,  had  preserved 
him  from  debt.  He  had  received  from 
his  poems  a  clear  profit  of  about  nine  hun- 
dred pounds.  Of  this  sum,  the  part  ex- 
pended on  his  library  (which  was  far  from 
extensive)  and  in  the  humble  furniture 
of  his  house,  remained ;  and  obligations 
were  found  for  two  hundred  pounds  ad- 
vanced by  him  to  the  assistance  of  those 
to  whom  he  was  united  by  the  ties  of 
blood,  and  still  more  by  those  of  esteem 
and  affection.  When  it  is  considered,  that 
his  expenses  in  Edinburgh,  and  on  his  va- 
rious journeys,  could  not  be  inconsiderable; 
that  his  agricultural  undertaking  was  un- 
successful: that  his  income  from  the  ex- 
cise was  for  some  time  as  low  as  fifty,  and 
never  rose  to  above  seventy  pounds  a-year  ; 
that  his  family  was  large,  and  his  spirit 
liberal — no  one  will  be  surprised  that  his 
circumstances  were  so  poor,  or  that  as 
his  health  decayed  his  proud  and  feel- 
ing heart  sunk  under  t ho  secret  con- 
ness  of  indigence,  and  the  appre- 
hensions of  absolute  want.  Yet  poverty 
never  bent  the  spirit  of  Burns  to  any  pe- 

*  Author  of  "  St.  Guerdon's  Well,"  a  poem;  and  of 
"  A  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  Hums." 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


61 


cuniary  meanness.  Neither  chicanery 
nor  sordidness  ever  appeared  in  his  con- 
duct. Ho  carried  his  disregard  of  mo- 
ney to  a  blameable  excess.  Even  in  the 
midst  of  distress  he  bore  himself  loftily 
to  the  world,  and  received  with  a  jealous 
reluctance  every  offer  of  friendly  assis- 
tance. His  printed  poems  had  procured 
him  great  celebrity,  and  a  just  and  fair 
recompense  for  the  latter  offsprings  of  his 
pen  might  have  produced  him  considera- 
ble emolument.  In  the  year  1795,  the 
Editor  of  a  London  newspaper,  high  in  its 
character  for  literature,  and  independence 
of  sentiment,  made  a  proposal  to  him  that 
he  should  furnish  them,  once  a  week, 
with  an  article  for  their  poetical  depart- 
ment, and  receive  from  them  a  recom- 
pense of  fifty-two  guineas  per  annum  ; 
an  offer  which  the  pride  of  genius  disdain- 
ed to  accept.  Yet  he  had  for  several 
years  furnished,  and  was  at  that  time  fur- 
nishing, the  Museum  of  Johnson  with  his 
beautiful  lvrics,  without  fee  or  reward, 
and  was  obstinately  refusing  all  recom- 
pense for  his  assistance  to  the  greater 
work  of  Mr.  Thomson,  which  the  jus- 
tice and  generosity  of  that  gentleman  was 
pressing  upon  him. 

The  sense  of  his  poverty,  and  of  the  ap- 
proaching distress  of  his  infant  family, 
pressed  heavily  on  Burns  as  he  lay  on  the 
bed  of  death.  Yet  he  alluded  to  his  in- 
digence, at  times  with  something  ap- 
proaching to  his  wonted  gayety. — "  What 
business,"  said  he  to  Dr.  Maxwell,  who 
attended  him  with  the  utmost  zeal,  "  has 
a  physician  to  waste  his  time  on  me  ?  I 
am  a  poor  pigeon,  not  worth  plucking. 
Alas  !  I  have  not  feathers  enough  upon 
me  to  carry  me  to  my  grave."  And  when 
his  reason  was  lost  in  delirium  his  ideas 
ran  in  the  same  melancholy  train  ;  the 
horrors  of  a  jail  were  continually  present 
to  his  troubled  imagination,  and  produced 
the  most  affecting  exclamations. 

As  for  some  months  previous  to  his 
death  he  had  been  incapable  of  the  duties 
of  his  office,  Burns  dreaded  that  his  salary 
should  be  reduced  one  half  as  is  usual  in 
such  cases.  His  full  emoluments  were, 
however,  continued  to  him  by  the  kind- 
ness of  Mr.  Stobbie,  a  young  expectant. 
in  the  Excise,  who  performed  the  duties 
of  his  office  without  fee  or  reward  ;  and 
Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry,  hearing  of  his  ill- 
ness, though  unacquainted  with  its  dan- 
gerous nature,  made  an  offer  of  his  assis- 
tance towards  procuring  him  the  means 


of  preserving  his  health.  Whatever 
might  be  t  In:  faults  of  Burns,  ingratitude 
was  not  of  the  number. — Amongst  his 
manuscripts,  various  proofs  are  found  of 
the  sense  he  entertained  of  Mr.  Graham's 
friendship,  which  delicacy  towards  that 
gentleman  has  induced  us  to  suppress  ; 
and  on  this  last  occasion  there  is  no  doubt 
that  his  heart  overflowed  towards  him, 
though  he  had  no  longer  the  power  of 
expressing  his  feelings.* 

On  the  death  of  Burns  the  inhabitants 
of  Dumfries  and  its  neighbourhood  opened 
a  subscription  for  the  support  of  his  wife 
and  family  ;  and  Mr.  Miller,  Mr.  M'Mur- 
do,  Dr.  Maxwell,  Mr.  Syme,  and  Mr. 
Cunningham,  gentlemen  of  the  first  re- 
spectability, became  trustees  for  the  ap- 
plication of  the  money  to  its  proper  ob- 
jects. The  subscription  was  extended  to 
other  parts  of  Scotland,  and  of  England 
also,  particularly  London  and  Liverpool. 
By  this  means  a  sum  was  raised  amount- 
ing to  seven  hundred  pounds  ;  and  thus 
the  widow  and  children  were  rescued  from 
immediate  distress,  and  the  most  melan- 
choly of  the  forebodings  of  Burns  happily 
disappointed.  It  is  true,  this  sum,  though 
equal  to  their  present  support,  is  insuffi- 
cient to  secure  them  from  future  penury. 
Their  hope  in  regard  to  futurity  depends 
on  the  favourable  reception  of  these  vo- 
lumes from  the  public  at  large,  in  the 
promoting  of  which  the  candour  and  hu- 
manity of  the  reader  may  induce  him  to 
lend  his  assistance. 

Burns,  as  has  already  been  mentioned, 
was  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height, 
and  of  a  form  that  indicated  agility  as  well 
as  strength.  His  well-raised  forehead, 
shaded  with  black  curling  hair,  indicated 
extensive  capacity.  His  eyes  were  large, 
dark,  full  of  ardour  and  intelligence.  His 
face  was  well  formed  ;  and  his  counte- 
nance uncommonly  interesting  and  ex- 
pressive. His  mode  of  dressing,  which 
was  often  slovenly,  and  a  certain  fulness 
and  bend  in  his  shoulders,  characteristic 
of  his  original  profession,  disguised  in 
some  degree  the  natural  symmetry  and 
elegance  of  his  form.  The  external  ap- 
pearance of  Burns  was  most  strikingly  in- 
dicative of  the  character  of  his  mind.  On 
a  first  view,  his  physiognomy  had  a  cer- 
tain air  of  coarseness,  mingled,  however, 

*  The  letter  of  Mr.  Graham,  alluded  to  above,  is 
dated  on  the  13th  of  July,  and  probably  arrived  on  tin 
15th.  Rums  became  delirious  on  the  17th  or  18th, 
and  died  on  the  21st 


G2 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


with  an  expression  of  deep  penetration, 
and  of  calm  thoughtfulness,  approaching 
to  melancholy.     There  appeared  in  his 
first  manner   and   address,    perfect    ease 
and  self- possession,  but  astern  and  almosl 
supercilious  elevation,  not,  indeed,  incom- 
patible wit  h  openness  and  affability, which, 
however,  bespoke  a  mind  conscious  of  su- 
perior talents.     Strangers  that  supposed 
themselves  approaching  an  Ayrshire  pea- 
sant who  could  make  rhymes,  and  to  win  u n 
their  notice  was  an  honour,  found  them- 
selves speedily  overawed  by  the  presence 
of  a  man  who  bore  himself  with  dignity, 
and  who  possessed  a  singular  power  of 
correcting  forwardness,  and  of  repelling 
intrusion.      But  though  jealous  of  the  re- 
spect due  to  himself,  Burns  never  enforced 
it  where  he  saw  it  was  willingly  paid  ; 
and,  though  inaccessible  to  the  approach- 
es of  pride,  he  was  open  to  every  advance 
of  kindness  and  of  benevolence.  His  dark 
and  haughty  countenance  easily  relaxed 
into  a  look  of  good-will,  of  pity,  or  of  ten- 
derness; and,   as  the  various   emotions 
succeeded  each  other  in  his  mind,  assumed 
with  equal  ease  the  expression  of  the 
broadest  humour,  of  the  most  extravagant 
mirth,  of  the  deepest  melancholy,  or  of 
the  most  sublime  emotion.     The  tones  of 
his  voice  happily  corresponded  with  the 
expression  of  his  features,  and  with  the 
feelings  of  his  mind.     When  to  these  en- 
dowments are  added  a  rapid  and  distinct 
apprehension,    a   most   powerful    under- 
standing, and  a  happy  command  of  lan- 
guage— of  strength  as  well  as  brilliancy 
of  expression — we  shall  be  able  to  ac- 
count for  the  extraordinary  attractions  of 
Ids  conversation — for  the  sorcery  which 
in  his  social  parties  he  seemed  to  exert 
on  all   around  him.     In  the  company  of 
women  this  sorcery  was  more  especially 
apparent.      Their  presence  charmed  the 
fiend  of  melancholy  in   his  bosom,  and 
awoke  his  happiest   feelings;  it   excited 
the  powers  of  his  fancy,  as  well  as  the 
tenderness  of  his  heart ;  and,  by  restrain- 
ing the  vehemence  and  the  exuberance 
of  his  language,  at  time-  gave  to  hi:;  man- 
ners the  impression  of  taste,  and  even  of 
elegance,  which  in  the  company  of  men 
they  seldom  possessed.     This  influence 
was    doubtless    reciprocal.       A    Scottish 
Lady,  accustomed  tothebesl  society,  de- 
clared with  characteristic  naivete,  I  hat  no 
man's  conversation  ever  carried   lirr  so 
completely  off'  her  feet  as  that,  of  Burns  ; 
and  an  English  Lady,  familiarly  acquaint- 
ed with  several  of  the  most  distinguished 
character  of  the  present  times,  assured 


the  Editor,  that  in  the  happiest  of  his  so- 
cial hours,  there  was  a  charm  about  Burns 
which  she  had  never  seen  equalled.  This 
charm  arose  not  mure  from  the  power  than 

the  versatility  of  his  genius.  No  languor 
could  be  felt  in  the  society  of  a  man  who 
passed  at  pleasure  homgrave  to  gay,  from 
the  ludicrous  to  the  pathetic,  from  the  sim- 
ple to  the  sublime:  who  wielded  all  his 

faculties  with  equal  strength  and  ease, 
and  never  failed  to  impress  the  offspring 
of  his  fancy  with  the  stamp  of  his  under, 
standing. 

This  indeed,  is  to  represent  Burns  in  his 
happiest  phasis.  In  large  and  mixed  par- 
ties he  was  often  silent  and  dark,  some- 
times fierce  and  overbearing;  he  was 
jealous  of  the  proud  man's  scorn,  jealous 
to  an  extreme  of  the  insolence  of  wealth, 
and  prone  to  avenge,  even  on  its  innocent 
possessor,  the  partiality  of  fortune.  By 
nature  kind,  brave,  sincere,  and  in  a  sin- 
gular degree  compassionate,  he  was  on 
the  other  hand  proud,  irascible,  and  vin- 
dictive. His  virtues  and  his  failings  had 
their  origin  in  the  extraordinary  sensi- 
bility of  his  mind,  and  equally  partook  of 
the  chills  and  glows  of  sentiment.  His 
friendships  were  liable  to  interruption 
from  jealousy  or  disgust,  and  his  enmities 
died  away  under  the  influence  of  pity  or 
self-accusation.  His  understanding  was 
equal  to  the  other  powers  of  his  mind, 
and  his  deliberate  opinions  were  singular- 
ly candid  and  just ;  but,  like  other  men  of 
great  and  irregular  genius,  the  opinions 
which  he  delivered  in  conversation  were 
often  the  offspring  of  temporary  feelings, 
and  widely  different  from  the  calm  deci- 
sions of  his  judgment.  This  was  not 
merely  true  respecting  the  characters  of 
others,  but  in  regard  to  some  of  the  most 
important  points  of  human  speculation. 

On  no  subject  did  he  give  a  more  strik- 
ing proof  of  the  strength  of  his  under- 
standing, than  in  the  correct  estimate  he 
formed  of,  himself.  He  knew  his  own 
failings;  lie  predicted  their  consequence ; 
the  melancholy  foreboding  was  never  long 
absent  from  his  mind  ;  yet  his  passions 
carried  him  down  the  stream  of  error, 
and  swept  him  over  the  precipice  he  saw 
directly  in  his  course.  The  fatal  defect 
in  his  character  lay  in  the  comparative 
weakness  of  his  volition,  that  superior 
faculty  of  the  mind,  which  governing  the 
conduct  according  to  the  dictates  of  the 
understanding,  alone  entitles  it  to  be  de- 
nominated rational  ;  which  is  the  parent 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


G3 


of  fortitude,  patience,  and  self-denial ; 
which,  by  regulating  and  combining  hu- 
man exertions,  may  be  said  to  have  ef- 
fected all  that  is  great  in  the  works  of 
man,  in  literature,  in  science,  or  on  the 
face  of  nature.  The  occupations  of  a 
poet  are  not  calculated  to  strengthen  the 
governing  powers  of  the  mind,  or  to  weak- 
en that  sensibility  which  requires  per- 
petual  control,  since  it  gives  birth  to  the 
vehemence  of  passion  as  well  as  to  the 
higher  powers  of  imagination.  Unfortu- 
nately the  favourite  occupations  of  genius 
are  calculated  to  increase  all  its  peculi- 
arities ;  to  nourish  that  lofty  pride  which 
disdains  the  littleness  of  prudence,  and 
the  restrictions  of  order  :  and  by  indul- 
gence, to  increase  that  sensibility  which, 
in  the  present  form  of  our  existence,  is 
scarcely  compatible  with  peace  or  happi- 
ness, even  when  accompanied  with  the 
choicest  gifts  of  fortune  ! 

It  is  observed  by  one  who  was  a  friend 
and  associate  of  Burns,*  and  who  has 
contemplated  and  explained  the  system  of 
animated  nature,  that  no  sentient  being 
with  mental  powers  greatly  superior  to 
those  of  men,  could  possibly  live  and  be 
happy  in  this  world — "  If  such  a  being 
really  existed,"  continues  he,  "  his  misery 
would  be  extreme.  With  senses  more 
delicate  and  refined  ;  with  perceptions 
more  acute  and  penetrating ;  with  a  taste 
so  exquisite  that  the  objects  around  him 
would  by  no  means  gratify  it ;  obliged  to 
feed  on  nourishment  too  gross  for  his 
frame  ;  he  must  be  born  only  to  be  mis- 
erable ;  and  the  continuation  of  his  exis- 
tence would  be  utterly  impossible.  Even 
in  our  present  condition,  the  sameness 
and  the  insipidity  of  objects  and  pursuits, 
the  futility  of  pleasure,  and  the  infinite 
sources  of  excruciating  pain,  are  support- 
ed with  great  difficulty  by  cultivated  and 
refined  minds.  Increase  our  sensibilities, 
continue  the  same  objects  and  situation, 
and  no  man  could  bear  to  live." 

Thus  it  appears,  that  our  powers  of 
sensation  as  well  as  all  our  other  powers, 
are  adapted  to  the  scene  of  our  existence ; 
that  they  are  limited  in  mercy,  as  well  as 
in  wisdom. 

The  speculations  of  Mr.  Smellie  are 
not  to  be  considered  as  the  dreams  of  a 
theorist  ;  they  were  probably  founded  on 
sad  experience.     The  being  he  supposes, 

*  Smcllio  —See  his  'Tliilosophy  of  Natural  History." 


"  with  senses  more  delicate  and  refined, 
with  perceptions  more  acute  and  pene- 
trating," is  to  be  found  in  real  life.  He 
is  of  the  temperament  of  genius,  and  per- 
haps a  poet.  Is  there,  then,  no  remedy 
for  this  inordinate  sensibility  ?  Are  there 
no  means  by  which  the  happiness  of  one 
so  constituted  by  nature  may  be  consult- 
ed ?  Perhaps  it  will  be  found,  that  regular 
and  constant  occupation,  irksome  though 
it  may  at  first  be,  is  the  true  remedy. 
Occupation  in  which  the  powers  of  the 
understanding  are  exercised,  will  dimin- 
ish the  force  of  external  impressions,  and 
keep  the  imagination  under  restraint. 

That  the  bent  of  every  man's  mind 
should  be  followed  in  his  education  and 
in  his  destination  in  life,  is  a  maxim  which 
has  been  often  repeated,  but  which  can- 
not be  admitted,  without  many  restric- 
tions. It  may  be  generally  true  when 
applied  to  weak  minds,  which  being  capa- 
ble of  little,  must  be  encouraged  and 
strengthened  in  the  feeble  impulses  by 
which  that  little  is  produced.  But  where 
indulgent  nature  has  bestowed  her  gifts 
with  a  liberal  hand,  the  very  reverse  of  this 
maxim  ought  frequently  to  be  the  rule  of 
conduct.  In  minds  of  a  higher  order,  the 
object  of  instruction  and  of  discipline  is 
very  often  to  restrain,  rather  than  to  im- 
pel ;  to  curb  the  impulses  of  imagina- 
tion, so  that  the  passions  also  may  be 
kept  under  control.* 

Hence  the  advantages,  even  in  a  moral 
point  of  view,  of  studies  of  a  severer  na- 
ture, which  while  they  inform  the  under- 
standing, employ  the  volition,  that  regu- 
lating power  of  the  mind,  which,  like  all 
our  other  faculties,  is  strengthened  by  ex- 
ercise, and  on  the  superiority  of  which, 
virtue,  happiness,  and  honourable  fame, 
are  wholly  dependant.  Hence  also  the 
advantage  of  regular  and  constant  appli- 

*  Quinctilian  discusses  the  important  question,  whe- 
ther the  bent  of  the  individual's  genius  should  be  fol- 
lowed in  his  education  {an  secundum  sui  quisque  in- 
genii  docendus  sit  naturam,)  chiefly,  indeed,  with  a 
reference  to  the  orator,  but  in  a  way  that  admits  of 
very  general  application.  His  conclusions  coincide 
very  much  with  those  of  the  text.  "An  vero  Isocrates 
cum  de  Ephoro  atque  Theopompo  sic  judicaret,  ut  al- 
tcri  frenis,  altcri  calcaribus  opus  esse  diceret ;  aut  in 
illo  lentiore  tarditatem,  aut  in  illo  pene  praxipiti  con- 
citationem  adjuvandum  docendoexistimavit?cum  alte- 
rum  alterius  naturamiscendum  arbicraietur.  Imbecillis 
tamen  ingeniis  sane  sic  obsequendum,  sit,  ut  tantum  in 
id  quo  vocat  natura,  ducantur.  Ita  enini,  quod  solum 
possunt,  melius  efficient." 

List.  Orator,  lib.  il.  9. 


64 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


cation,  which  aids  the  voluntary  power  by 
the  production  of  habits  so  necessary  to 
the  support  of  order  and  virtue,  ami  so 
difficult  to  be  formed  in  the  temperament 
of  genius. 

The  man  who  is  so  endowed  and  so  re- 
gulated, may  pursue  bis  course  with  con- 
fidence in  almost  any  of  the  various  walks 
of  life  which  choice  or  accident  shall  open 
to  him;  and,  provided  he  employs  the  ta- 
lents lie  lias  cultivated,  may  hope  for  such 
imperfect  happiness,  and  such  limited  suc- 
cess, as  are  reasonably  to  be  expected  from 
human  exertions. 

The  pre-eminence  among  men,  which 
procures  personal  respect,  and  which  ter- 
minates in  lasting  reputation,  is  seldom 
or  never  obtained  by  the  excellence  of  a 
single  faculty,  of  mind.   Experience  teach- 
es us,  thai  it  has  been  acquired  by  those 
only  who  have  possessed  the  comprehen- 
sion and  the  energy  of  general  talents, 
and  who  have  regulated  their  application, 
in  the  line  which  choice,  or  perhaps  ac- 
cident, may  have  determined,  by  the  dic- 
tates of  their  judgment.     Imagination  is 
supposed,  and  with  justice,  to  be  the  lcad- 
ing  faculty  of  the  poet.     But  what  poet 
has  -loud  the  test  of  time  by  the  force  of 
this  single  faculty?     Who  does  not  see 
that  Homer  and  Shakspeare  excelled  the 
rest  of  their  species  in  understanding  as 
well  as  in  imagination ;  that  they  were 
pre-eminent    in   the   highest   species   of 
knowledge — the  knowledge  of  the  nature 
and  character  of  man?     On  the  other 
hand,  the  talent  of  ratiocination  is  more 
especially  requisite  to  the  orator;  but  no 
man  ever  obtained  the  palm  of  oratory, 
even  by  the  highest  excellence  in  this 
single  talent.     Who  does  not  perceive 
that  Demosthenes  and  Cicero  were  not 
more  happy  in  their  addresses  to  the  rea- 
son, than  in  t  heir  appeals  to  the  passions? 
They  knew,  that  to  excite,  to  agitate, 
and  to  delight,  are  among  the  most  po- 
tent arts  of  persuasion  ;  and  t  hey  enforced 
then-  impression  on  the  understanding,  by 
their  command  of  all  the  sympathies  of 
the  heart.     These  observations  might  be 
extended  to  other  walks  of  life.    He  who 
has  the  faculties  fitted  to  excel  in  poetry, 
has  the  faculties  which,  duly  governed, 
and  differently  directed,  might  lead  to  pre- 
eminence in  other,  and,  a    far  a    h  -peels 
elf,  perhaps  in  happier  destinations. 
The  talent-  necessary  to  the  construction 
of  an  Iliad,  under  different  discipline  and 
application,  might  have  led  armies  to  vic- 


tory, or  kingdoms  to  prosperity;  might 
have  wielded  the  thunder  of  eloquence,  or 
discovered  and  enlarged  the  sciences  that 
constitute  the  power  and  improve  the  con- 
dition of  our  species. *     Such  talents  are, 

*  The  reader  must  not  suppose  it  is  contended  that 
the  same  individual  could  have  excelled  in  all  these  di- 
rections. A  certain  degree  of  instruction  and  practice 
i-  in  '  essary  to  excellence  in  every  one,  and  life  is  loo 
short  to  admit  of  one  man.  however  great  his  talents, 
acquiring  this  in  all  of  them.  It  is  only  asserted,  that 
the  same  talents,  differently  applied,  might  have  suc- 
ceeded in  anyone,  though  perhaps,  not  equally  well  in 
each.  And,  after  all,  this  position  requires  certain  li- 
mitations, which  the  rcadnr's  candour  and  judgment 
will  supply.  In  supposing  that  a  great  poet  might  nave 
made  a  great  orator,  the  physical  qualties  necessary  to 
oratory  are  pre-supposed.  In  supposing  that  a  great 
orator  might  have  made  a  great  poet,  it  is  a  necessary 
condition,  that  he  should  have  devoted  himself  to  poe- 
try, and  tiiat  he  should  have  acquired  a  proficiency  in 
metrical  numbers,  which  by  patience  and  attention 
may  be  acquired,  though  the  want  of  it  has  embarrass- 
ed and  chilled  many  of  the  first  efforts  of  true  poetical 
genius.  In  supposing  that  Homer  might  have  led  armies 
to  victory,  more  indeed  is  assumed  than  the  physical 
qualities  of  a  general.  To  these  must  be  added  that  har- 
dihood of  mind,  that  coolness  in  the  midst  of  difficulty 
and  danger,  which  great  poets  and  orators  are  found" 
sometimes,  but  not  always  to  possess.  The  nature  of 
the  institutions  of  Greece  and  Rome  produced  more 
instances  of  single  individuals  who  excelled  in  various 
departments  of  active  and  speculative  life,  than  occur 
in  modern  Europe,  where  the  employments  of  men  are 
more  subdivided.  Many  of  the  greatest  warriors  of 
antiquity  excelled  in  literature  and  in  oratory.  That 
they  had  the  minds  of  great  poets  also,  will  be  admitted, 
when  the  qualities  are  justly  appreciated  which  are 
necessary  to  excite,  combine,  and  command  the  active 
energies  of  a  great  body  of  men,  to  rouse  that  enthusi- 
asm which  sustains  fatigue,  hunger,  and  the  inclemen- 
cies of  the  elements,  and  which  triumphs  over  the  fear 
of  death,  the  most  powerful  instinct  of  our  nature. 

The  authority  of  Cicero  may  be  appealed  to  in  favour 
of  the  close  connexion  between  the  poet  and  the  orator. 
Est  enim  fiiiitimus  orator i  pocta,  wumcris  adstrictior 
paulo,  vcrborum  antem  liccntia  libcrior,  &-c.  De  Ora- 
tore,  Lib.  i.  c.  JG.  See  also  Lib.  iii.  c.  7. — It  is  true 
the  example  of  Cicero  may  be  quoted  against  his  opi- 
nion. His  attempts  in  verse,  which  are  praised  by  Plu- 
tarch, do  not  seem  to  have  met  the  approbation  of  Ju- 
venal, or  of  some  others.  Cicero  probably  did  not  lake 
sufficient  time  to  learn  the  art  of  the  poel  :  but  that  ho 
had  the  afflatus  necessary  to  poetical  excellence,  may 
be  abundantly  proved  from  his  compositions  in  prose. 
( )n  the  oilier  hand,  nothing  is  more  clear,  than  that,  in 
the  character  of  a  great  poet,  all  the  mental  qualities  of 
an  orator  are  included,  li  is  said  by  Quinctilian,  of 
Homer,  Omnibus eloqucntim  partibus  rumpbim  etor- 
imii  dedit.  Lib.  i.  47.  The  study  of  Homer  is  therefore 
recommended  to  the  orator,  as  of  the  first  importance. 
(  if  the  two  sublime  pnels  in  our  own  language-,  who  are 
hardly  inferior  to  Homer,  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  a 
similar  recommendation  maybe  given.  It  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  mention  how  much  an  acquaintance  with 
them  has  availed  the  great  orator  who  is  now  the  pride 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


65 


indeed,  rare  among  the  productions  of  na- 
ture, and  occasions  of  bringing  them  into 
lull  exertion  arc  rarer  still.  But  safe  and 
salutary  occupations  may  be  found  for  men 
of  genius  in  every  direction,  while  the 
useful  and  ornamental  arts  remain  to  be 
cultivated,  while  the  sciences  remain  to 
be  studied  and  .to  be  extended,  and  prin- 
ciples of  science  to  be  applied  to  the  cor- 
rection and  improvement  of  art.  In  the 
temperament  of  sensibility,  which  is  in 
truth  the  temperament  of  general  talents, 
the  principal  object  of  discipline  and  in- 
struction is,  as  has  already  been  mention- 
ed, to  strengthen  the  self-command;  and 
this  may  be  promoted  by  the  direction  of 
the  studies,  more  effectually  perhaps  than 
has  been  generally  understood. 

If  these  observationsbe  founded  in  truth, 
they  may  lead  to  practical  consequences  of 
some  importance.  It  has  been  too  much 
the  custom  to  consider  the  possession  of 
poetical  talents  as  excluding  the  possibili- 
ty of  application  to  the  severer  branches 
of  study,  and  as  in  some  degree  incapaci- 
tating the  possessor  from  attaining  those 
habits,  and  from  bestowing  that  attention, 
which  are  necessary  to  success  in  the  de- 
tails of  business,  and  in  the  engagements 
of  active  life.  It  has  been  common  for 
persons  conscious  of  such  talents,  to  look 
with  a  sort  of  disdain  on  other  kinds  of 
intellectual  excellence,  and  to  consider 
themselves  as  in  some  degree  absolved 
from  those  rules  of  prudence  by  which 
humbler  minds  are  restricted.    They  are 

and  ornament  of  the  English  bar,  a  character  that  may 
be  appealed  to  with  singular  propriety,  when  we  are 
contending  for  the  universality  of  genius. 

The  identity,  or  at  least  the  great  similarity,  of  the 
talents  necessary  to  excellence  in  poetry,  oratory,  paint- 
ing, and  war,  will  be  admitted  by  some,  who  will  be  in- 
clined to  dispute  the  extension  of  the  position  to  science 
or  natural  knowledge.  On  this  occasion  I  may  quote 
the  following  observations  of  Sir  William  Jones,  whose 
own  example  will  however  far  exceed  in  weight  the 
authority  of  his  precepts.  "  Abul  Ola  had  so  flourish- 
ing a  reputation,  that  several  persons  of  uncommon 
genius  were  ambitious  of  learning  the  art  of  jmitrtj 
from  so  able  an  instructor.  His  most  illustriousscholars 
were  Feleki  and  Khakani,  who  were  no  less  eminent 
for  their  Persian  compositions,  than  for  their  skill  in 
every  branch  of  pure  and  mixed  mathematics,  and  par- 
ticularly in  astronomy  ;  a  striking  proof  that  a  sublime 
poet  may  become  master  of  any  kind  of  learning  which 
he  chooses  to  profess ;  since  a  fine  imagination,  a  lively 
wit,  an  easy  and  copious  style,  cannot  possibly  ob 
struct  the  acquisition  of  any  science  whatever ;  but 
must  necessarily  assist  liim  in  his  studies,  and  shorten 
bis  labour."  Sir  William  Jones' 3  Works,  vol.  iip.'in. 


too  much  disposed  to  abandon  themselvea 
to  their  own  sensations,  and  to  suffer  life 
to  pass  away  without  regular  exertion  or 
set  1  led  purpose. 

But  though  men  of  genius  are  generally 
prone  to  indolence,  with  them  indolence 
and  unhappiness  are  in  a  more  especial 
manner  allied.  The  unbidden  splendours 
of  imagination  may  indeed  at  times  irra- 
diate the  gloom  which  inactivity  produces ; 
but  such  visions,  though  bright,  are  tran- 
sient, and  serve  to  cast  the  realities  of 
life  into  deeper  shade.  In  bestowing  great 
talents,  Nature  seems  very  generally  to 
have  imposed  on  the  possessor  the  neces- 
sity of  exertion,  if  he  would  escape  wretch- 
edness. Better  for  him  than  sloth,  toils 
the  most  painful,  or  adventures  the  most 
hazardous.  Happier  to  him  than  idleness, 
were  the  condition  of  the  peasant,  earn- 
ing with  incessant  labour  his  scanty  food ; 
or  that  of  the  sailor,  though  hanging  on 
the  yard-arm,  and  wrestling  with  the  hur- 
ricane. 

These  observations  might  be  amply  il- 
lustrated by  the  biography  of  men  of  ge- 
nius of  every  denomination,  and  more  es- 
pecially by  the  biography  of  the  poets. 
Of  this  last  description  of  men,  few  seem 
to  have  enjoyed  the  usual  portion  of  hap- 
piness that  falls  to  the  lot  of  humanity, 
those  excepted  who  have  cultivated  poe- 
try as  an  elegant  amusement  in  the  hours 
of  relaxation  from  other  occupations,  or 
the  small  number  who  have  engaged  with 
success  in  the  greater  or  more  arduous 
attempts  of  the  muse,  in  which  all  the 
faculties  of  the  mind  have  been  fully  and 
permanently  employed.  Even  taste,  vir- 
tue, and  comparative  independence,  do 
not  seem  capable  of  bestowing  on  men  of 
genius,  peace  and  tranquillity,  without 
such  occupation  as  may  give  regular  and 
healthful  exercise  to  the  faculties  of  body 
and  mind.  The  amiable  Shenstone  has 
left  us  the  records  of  his  imprudence,  of 
his  indolence,  and  of  his  unhappiness, 
amidst  the  shades  of  the  Leasowes;*  and 
the  virtues,  the  learning,  and  the  genius 
of  Gray,  equal  to  the  loftiest  attempts  of 
the  epic  muse,  failed  to  procure  him  in 
the  academic  bowers  of  Cambridge,  that 
tranquillity  and  that  respect  which  less 
fastidiousness  of  taste,  and  greater  con- 
stancy and  vigour  of  exertion,  would  have 
doubtless  obtained. 

*  See  his  Letters,  which,  as  a  display  of  the  offecis  of 
poetical  idleness,  are  highly  instructive. 


C6 


THE  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


It  is  more  necessary  that  men  of  genius 
should  be  aware  of  the  importance  of  self- 
command,  and  of  exertion,  because  their 
indolence  is  peculiarly  exposed,  not  mere- 
ly to  unhappiness,  but  to  diseases  of  mind, 
and  to  errors  of  conduct,  which  are  gene- 
rally fatal.  This  interesting  subject  de- 
serves  a  particular  investigation  ;  but  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  one  or  two 
cursory  remarks.  Relief  is  sometimes 
sought  from  the  melancholy  of  indolence 
in  practices,  which  for  a  time  sooth  and 
gratify  the  sensations,  but  which  in  the 
end  involve  the  sufferer  in  darker  gloom. 
To  command  the  external  circumstances 
by  which  happiness  is  affected,  is  not  in 
human  power;  but  there  are  various  sub- 
stances  in  nature  which  operate  on  the 
system  of  the  nerves,  so  as  to  give  a  fic- 
titious gayety  to  the  ideas  of  imagination, 
and  to  alter  the  effect  of  the  external  im- 
pressions which  we  receive.  Opium  is 
chiefly  employed  for  this  purpose  by  the 
disciples  of  Mahomet  and  the  inhabitants 
of  Asia ;  but  alcohol,  the  principle  of  in- 
toxication in  vinous  and  spirituous  liquors, 
is  preferred  in  Europe,  and  is  universally 
used  in  the  Christian  world.*  Under  the 
various  wounds  to  which  indolent  sensi- 
bility is  exposed,  and  under  the  gloomy 
apprehensions  respecting  futurity  to  which 


*  There  are  a  great  number  of  other  substances, 
which  may  be  considered  under  this  point  of  view. 
Tobacco,  tea,  and  coffee,  are  of  the  number.  These  sub- 
stances essentially  differ  from  each  other  in  their  quali- 
ties ;  and  an  inquiry  into  the  particular  effects  of  each 
on  the  health,  morals,  and  happiness  of  those  who  use 
them,  would  be  curious  and  useful.  The  effects  of 
wine  and  of  opium  on  the  temperament  of  sensibility, 
the  Editor  intended  to  have  discussed  in  this  place  at 
some  length ;  but  he  found  the  subject  too  extensive  and 
too  professional  to  be  introduced  with  propriety.  The 
difficulty  of  abandoning  any  of  these  narcotics  (if  we 
may  so  term  them,)  when  inclination  is  strengthened  by 
habit,  is  well  known.  Johnson,  in  his  distresses,  had 
experienced  the  cheering  but  treacherous  influence  of 
wine,  and  by  a  powerful  effort,  abandoned  it.  He  was 
Obliged,  however,  to  use  tea  as  a  substitute,  and  this 
was  the  solace  to  which  lie  constantly  had  recourse 
under  his  habitual  melancholy.  The  praises  of  wine 
form  many  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrics  of  the  poets  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  and  of  modern  Europe.  Whether 
opium,  which  produces  visions  still  more  ecstatic,  has 
been  the  theme  of  Ihc  eastern  poems,  I  do  not  know. 

Wine  is  drunk  in  small  quantities  at  a  time,  in  com- 
pany, where, /or  a  time,  it  promotes  harmony  and  so- 
cial  affection,  opium  is  swallowed  by  the  Asiatics  in 
full  doses  at  once  and  the  Inebriate  retires  to  the  soli- 
tary indulgence  of  his  delirious  imaginations.  Hence 
the  wine  drinker  appeals  in  a  superior  lij-'lit  to  the  im- 
I  in.  i  of  opium,  a  distinction  which  he  owes  more  to 
this  form  than  to  the  quality  ofhu  liquor. 


it  is  so  often  a  prey,  how  strong  is  the 
temptation  to  have  recourse  to  an  anti- 
dote by  which  the  pain  of  these  wounds 
is  suspended,  by  which  the  heart  is  exhi- 
larated, visions  of  happiness  are  excited  in 
the  mind,  and  the  liu ins  of  external  na- 
ture clothed  with  new  beauty ! 

"  Elysium  opens  round, 
A  pleasing  frenzy  buoys  the  ligbten'd  soul, 
And  sanguine  hopes  dispel  your  fleeting  care; 
And  what  was  difficult,  and  what  was  dire, 
Yields  to  your  prowess,  and  superior  stars: 
The  happiest  you  of  all  that  e'er  were  mad, 
Or  are,  or  shall  be,  could  this  folly  last 
But  soon  your  heaven  is  gone  ;  a  heavier  gloom 
Shuts  o'er  your  head 


Morning  comes;  your  cares  return 

Withten  fold  rage.    An  anxious  stomach  well 
May  be  endured  ;  so  may  the  throbbing  head  : 
But  such  a  dim  delirium  ;  such  a  dream 
Involves  you;  such  a  dastardly  despair 
Unmans  your  soul,  as  madd'ning  I'entheus  felt, 
When,  baited  round  Citha'ron's  cruel  sides, 
He  saw  two  suns  and  double  Thebes  ascend." 

Armstrong's  Art  of  Preserving  Health 

Such  are  the  pleasures  and  the  pains 
of  intoxication,  as  they  occur  in  the  tem- 
perament of  sensibility,  described  by  a 
genuine  poet,  with  a  degree  of  truth 
and  energy  which  nothing  but  experience 
could  have  dictated.  There  are,  indeed, 
some  individuals  of  this  temperament  on 
whom  wine  produces  no  cheering  influ- 
ence. On  some,  even  in  very  moderate 
quantities,  its  effects  are  painfully  irri- 
tating ;  in  large  draughts  it  excites  dark 
and  melancholy  ideas  ;  and  in  draughts 
still  larger,  the  fierceness  of  insanity  it- 
self. Such  men  are  happily  exempted 
from  a  temptation,  to  which  experience 
teaches  us  the  finest  dispositions  often 
yield,  and  the  influence  of  which,  when 
strengthened  by  habit,  it  is  a  humiliating 
truth,  that  the  most  powerful  minds  have 
not  been  able  to  resist. 

It  is  the  more  necessary  for  men  of 
genius  to  be  on  their  guard  against  the 
habitual  use  of  wine,  because  it  is  apt  to 
steal  on  them  insensibly  ;  and  because 
the  temptation  to  excess  usually  presents 
itself  to  them  in  their  social  hours,  when 
they  are  alive  only  to  warm  and  generous 
emotions,  and  when  prudence  and  mode- 
ration  are  often  contemned  as  selfishness 
and  timidity. 

It  is  the  more  necessary  for  them  to 
guard  against  excess  in  the  use  of  wine, 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


07 


because  on  them  its  effects  are,  physically 
and  morally,  in  an  especial  manner  inju- 
rious. In  proportion  to  its  stimulating 
influence  on  the  system  (on  which  the 
pleasurable  sensations  depend,)  is  the  de- 
bility that  ensues ;  a  debility  thai  destroys 
digestion,  and  terminates  in  habitual  fe- 
ver, dropsy,  jaundice,  paralysis,  or  insani- 
ty. As  the  strength  of  the  body  decays, 
the  volition  fails  ;  in  proportion  as  the 
sensations  are  soothed  and  gratified,  the 
sensibility  increases  ;  and  morbid  sensi- 
bility is  the*  parent  of  indolence,  because, 
while  it  impairs  the  regulating  power  of 
the  mind,  it  exaggerates  all  the  obstacles 
to  exertion.  Activity,  perseverance,  and 
self-command,  become  more  and  more 
difficult,  and  the  great  purposes  of  utility, 
patriotism,  or  of  honourable  ambition, 
which  had  occupied  the  imagination,  die 
away  in  fruitless  resolutions,  or  in  feeble 
efforts. 

To  apply  these  observations  to  the  sub- 
ject of  our  memoirs,  would  be  a  useless  as 
well  as  a  painful  task.  It  is,  indeed,  a 
duty  we  owe  to  the  living,  not  to  allow 
our  admiration  of  great  genius,  or  even 
our  pity  for  its  unhappy  destiny,  to  con- 
ceal or  disguise  its  errors.  But  there  are 
sentiments  of  respect,  and  even  of  tender- 
ness, with  which  this  duty  should  be  per- 
formed ;  there  is  an  awful  sanctity  which 
invests  the  mansions  of  the  dead ;  and  lot 
those  who  moralise  over  the  graves  of 
their  contemporaries,  reflect  with  humili- 
ty .on  their  own  errors,  nor  forget  how 
soon  they  may  themselves  require  the 
candour  and  the  sympathy  they  are  called 
upon  to  bestow. 


Soon  after  the  death  of  Burns,  the  fol- 
lowing article  appeared  in  the  Dumfries 
Journal,  from  which  it  was  copied  into 
the  Edinburgh  newspapers,  and  into  vari- 
ous other  periodical  publications.  It  is 
from  the  elegant  pen  of  a  lady  already 
alluded  to  in  the  course  of  these  memoirs,* 
whose  exertions  for  the  family  of  our  bard, 
in  the  circles  of  literature  and  fashion  in 
which  she  moves,  have  done  her  so  much 
honour. 

"  The  attention  of  the  public  seems  to 
be  much  occupied  at  present  with  the  loss 
it  has  recently  sustained  in  the  death  of 
the  Caledonian  poet,  Robert  Burns  ;  a 

*  See  p.  59. 

s 


loss  calculated  to  be  severely  felt  through- 
out the  literary  world,  as  well  as  lamented 
in  the  narrower  sphere  of  private  friend- 
ship. It  was  not,  therefore,  probable,  that 
such  an  event  should  be  long  unattended 
with  the  accustomed  profusion  of  posthu- 
mous anecdotes  and  memoirs  which  are 
usually  circulated  immediately  after  the 
death  of  every  rare  and  celebrated  person- 
age :  I  had,  however,  conceived  no  inten- 
tion of  appropriating  to  myself  the  privi- 
lege of  criticising  Burns's  writings  and 
character,  or  of  anticipating  on  the  pro- 
vince of  a  biographer. 

"  Conscious,  indeed,  of  my  own  ina- 
bility to  do  justice  to  such  a  subject,  I 
should  ■  have  continued  wholly  silent, 
had  misrepresentation  and  calumny  been 
less  industrious ;  but  a  regard  to  truth, 
no  less  than  affection  for  the  memory  of 
a  friend,  must  now  justify  my  offering  to 
the  public  a  few  at  least  of  those  obser- 
vations which  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  Burns,  and  the  frequent  opportuni- 
ties I  have  had  of  observing  equally  his 
happy  qualities  and  his  failings  for  seve- 
ral years  past,  have  enabled  me  to  com- 
municate. 

"  It  will  actually  be  an  injustice  done 
to  Burns's  character,  not  only  by  future 
generations  and  foreign  countries,  but 
even  by  his  native  Scotland,  and  perhaps 
a  number  of  his  contemporaries,  that  he 
is  generally  talked  of,  and  considered, 
with  reference  to  his  poetical  talents  only: 
for  the  fact  is,  even  allowing  his  great 
and  original  genius  its  due  tribute  of  ad- 
miration, that  poetry  (I  appeal  to  all  who 
have  had  the  advantage  of  being  person- 
ally acquainted  with  him)  was  actually 
not  his  forte.  Many  others,  perhaps,  may 
have  ascended  to  prouder  heights  in  the 
region  of  Parnassus,  but  none  certainly 
ever  outshone  Burns  in  the  charms — the 
sorcery,  I  would  almost  call  it,  of  fasci- 
nating conversation,  the  spontaneous  elo- 
quence of  social  argument,  or  the  unstu- 
died poignancy  of  brilliant  repartee ;  nor 
was  any  man,  I  believe,  ever  gifted  with 
a  larger  portion  of  the  '  vivida  vis  animi.' 
His  personal  endowments  were  perfectly 
correspondent  to  the  qualifications  of  his 
mind ;  his  form  was  manly ;  his  action, 
energy  itself;  devoid  in  a  great  measure 
perhaps  of  those  graces,  of  that  polish, 
acquired  only  in  the  refinement  of  soci- 
eties where  in  early  life  he  could  have  no 
opportunities  of  mixing;  but  where  such 
was  the  irresistible  power  of  attraction 


68 


THE  LIFE  OP  BURNS. 


that  encircled  him,  though  his  appearance 
and  manners  were  always  peculiar,  he 
never  failed  lo  delight  and  to  excel.     His 

figure  seemed  to  bear  testimony  to  his 
earlier  destination  and  employments.  It 
seemed  rather  moulded  by  nature  for  the 
rough  exercises  of  agriculture,  than  the 
gentler  cultivation  "of  the  Belles  Lettres. 
His  features  were  stamped  with  the  hardy 
character  ofindependence,andthe  firmness 
of  conscious,  though  not  arrogant,  pre- 
eminence; the  animated  expressions  of 
countenance  were  almost  peculiar  to  him- 
self; the  rapid  lightnings  of  his  eye  were 
always  the  harbingers  of  some  flash  of 
genius,  whether  they  darted  the  fiery 
glances  of  insulted  and  indignant  superi- 
ority, or  beamed  with  the  impassioned 
sentiment  of  fervent,  and  impetuous  affec- 
tions. His  voice  alone  could  improve 
upon  the  magic  of  his  eye :  sonorous,  re- 
plete with  the  finest  modulations,  it  al- 
ternately captivated  the  ear  with  the 
melody  of  poetic  numbers,  the  perspicuity 
of  nervous  reasoning,  or  the  ardent  sal- 
lies of  enthusiastic  patriotism.  The  keen- 
ness of  satire  was,  I  am  almost  at  a  loss 
whether  to  say,  his  forte  or  his  foible;  for 
though  nature  had  endowed  him  with  a 
portion  of  the  most  pointed  excellence  in 
that  dangerous  talent,  he  suffered  it  too 
often  to  be  the  vehicle  of  personal,  and 
sometimes  unfounded  animosities.  It 
was  net  always  that  sportiveness  of  hu- 
mour, that  '  unwary  pleasantry,'  whirli 
Sterne  has  depicted  with  touches  so  con- 
ciliatory, hut  the  darts  of  ridicule  were 
frequently  directed  as  the  caprice  of  the 
instant,  suggested,  or  as  the  altercations  of 
parties  and  of  persons  happened  to  kindle 
the  restlessness  of  his  spirit  into  interest 
or  aversion.  This,  however,  was  not  in- 
variably the  case  ;  his  wit  (which  is  no 
unusual  matter  indeed)  had  always  the 
start  of  his  judgment,  and  would  lead  him 
to  the  indulgence  of  raillery  uniformly 
acute  but  often  unaccompanied  with  the 
least  desire  to  wound.  The  suppression 
of  an  arch  and  full-pointed  bon-mot,  from 
the  dread  of  offending  its  object,  the  saLre 
of  Zurich  very  properly  classes  as  a  vir- 
tue only  to  i  for  in  the  Calendar 
of  Saints  ;  if  so.  Burns  must  not  he  too 
severely  dealt  with  for  being  ratheT  de- 
ficient in  it.  He  paid  for  his  mischievous 
wit  as  dearly  a1-'  any  one  could  do.    '  'Twas 

no  extravaganl  arithmetic,'  to  say  of  him, 
as  was  said  of  Yorick,  thai  'for  every  ten 

jokes  he  f_rot  a  hundred   enemies:'  but 

much  allowance  will  lie  made  by  a  candid 
mind  for  the  splenetic  warmth  of  a  spirit 


whom '  distress  had  spited  with  the  world,' 
and  which,  unbounded  in  its  intellectual 
sallies  and  pursuits,  continually  experi- 
enced the  curbs  imposed  by  the  wayward- 
ness of  his  fortune.  The  vivacity  of  his 
wishes  and  temper  was  indeed  checked 
by  almost  habitual  disappointments,  which 
sat  heavy  on  a  heart  that  acknowledged 
the  ruling  passion  of  independence,  with- 
out ever  having  been  placed  beyond  the 
orasp  of  penury.  His  soul  was  never 
languid  or  inactive,  and  his  genius  was 
extinguished  only  with  the  last  spark  of 
retreating  life.  His  passions  rendered 
him,  according  as  they  disclosed  them- 
selves in  affection  or  antipathy,  an  object 
of  enthusiastic  attachment,  or  of  decided 
enmity  ;  for  lie  possessed  none  of  that 
negative  insipidity  of  character,  whose 
love  might  be  regarded  with  indifference, 
or  whose  resentment  could  be  considered 
with  contempt.  In  this,  it  should  seem, 
the  temper  of  his  associates  took  the  tinc- 
ture from  his  own  ;  for  he  acknowledged 
in  the  universe  but  two  classes  of  objects, 
those  of  adoration  the  most  fervent,  or  of 
aversion  the  most  uncontrollable  ;  and  it 
has  been  frequently  a  reproach  to  him, 
that,  unsusceptible  of  indifference,  often 
hating  where  he  ought  only  to  have  de- 
spised, he  alternately  opened  his  heart  and 
poured  forth  the  treasures  of  his  under- 
standing to  such  as  were  incapable  of  ap- 
preciating the  homage  ;  and  elevated  to 
the  privileges  of  an  adversary  some  who 
were  unqualified  in  all  respects  for  the 
honour  of  a  contest  so  distinguished. 

"  It  is  said  that  the  celebrated  Dr.  John- 
son professed  to  '  love  a  good  hater,' — a 
temperament  that  would  have  singularly 
adapted  him  to  cherish  a  prepossession  in 
favour  of  our  hard,  who  perhaps  fell  but 
little  short  even  of  the  surly  Doctor  in 
this  qualification,  as  long  as  the  disposi- 
tion to  ill-will  continued;  hut  the  warmth 
of  his  passions  was  fortunately  corrected 
by  their  versatility.  He  was  seldom,  in- 
deed never,  implacable  in  his  resentments, 
and  sometimes,  it  has  been  alleged,  not 
inviolably  faithful  in  his  engagements  of 
friendship.  Much,  indeed,  has  been  said 
about  his  inconstancy  and  caprice;  but  I 
am  inclined  to  believe  that  they  origina- 
ted less  in  a  levity  of  sentiment,  than  from 
an  extreme  impetuosity  of  feeling,  which 
rendered  liini  prompt  to  take  umbrage ; 
and  his  s<  nsat  ion:-  of  pique,  where  he  fan- 
cied he  had  discovered  the  traces  of  ne- 
glect, scorn,  or  unkindncss,  took  their 
measure  of  asperity  from  the  overflowings 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


CO 


of  the  opposite  sentiment  which  preceded 
them,  and  which  seldom  tailed  to  regain 
its  ascendency  in  his  hosom  on  the  return 
of  calmer  reflection.  He  was  candid  and 
manly  in  the  avowal  of  his  errors,  and  his 
avowal  was  a  reparation.  His  nativejSeric 
never  forsaking  him  for  a  moment,  the 
value  of  a  frank  acknowledgment  was  en- 
hanced tenfold  towards  a  generous  mind, 
from  its  never  being  attended  with  ser- 
vility. His  mind,  organized  only  for  the 
stronger  and  more  acute  operations  of  the 
passions,  was  impracticable  to  the  efforts 
of  superciliousness  that  would  have  de- 
pressed it  into  humility,  and  equally  su- 
perior to  the  encroachments  of  venal  sug- 
gestions that  might  have  led  him  into  the 
mazes  of  hypocrisy. 

"  It  has  been  observed,  that  he  was  far 
from  averse  to  the  incense  of  flattery,  and 
could  receive  it  tempered  with  less  deli- 
cacy than  might  have  been  expected,  as 
he  seldom  transgressed  extravagantly  in 
that,  way  himself;  where  he  paid  a  com- 
pliment, it  might  indeed  claim  the  power 
of  intoxication,  as  approbation  from  him 
was  always  an  honest  tribute  from  the 
warmth  and  sincerity  of  his  heart.  It  has 
been  sometimes  represented  by  those  who 
it  should  seem,  had  a  view  to  depreciate, 
though  they  could  not  hope  wholly  to  ob- 
scure that  native  brilliancy,  which  the  pow- 
ers of  this  extraordinary  man  had  invari- 
ably bestowed  on  every  thing  that  came 
from  his  lips  or  pen,  that  the  history  of  the 
Ayrshire  plough-boy  was  an  ingenious 
fiction,  fabricated  for  the  purposes  of  ob- 
taining the  interests  of  the  great,  and  en- 
hancing the  merits  of  what  required  no 
foil.  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Mght,  Tarn. 
o'Shanter,  and  The  Mountain  Daisy,  be- 
sides a  number  of  later  productions,  where 
the  maturity  of  his  genius  will  be  readily 
traced,  and  which  will  be  given  to  the 
public  as  soon  as  his  friends  have  collect- 
ed and  arranged  them,  speak  sufficiently 
for  themselves ;  and  had  they  fallen  from 
a  hand  more  dignified  in  the  ranks  of  so- 
ciety than  that  of  a  peasant,  they  had, 
perhaps,  bestowed  as  unusual  a  grace 
there,  as  even  in  the  humbler  shade  of 
rustic  inspiration  from  whence  they  real- 
ly sprung. 

"  To  the  obscure  scene  of  Burns's  edu- 
cation, and  to  the  laborious,  though  ho- 
nourable station  of  rural  industry,  in 
which  his  parentage  enrolled  him,  almost 
every  inhabitant  of  the  south  of  Scotland 
can  give  testimony.     His  only  surviving 


brother,  Gilbert  Burns,  now  guides  the 
ploughshare  of  his  forefathers  in  Ayrshire, 
at  a  farm  near  Mauchline  ;*  and  our  poet's 
eldest  son  (a  lad  of  nine  years  of  age, 
whose  early  dispositions  already  prove 
him  to  be  in  some  measure  the  inheritor 
of  his  father's  talents  as  well  as  indigence) 
has  been  destined  by  his  family  to  the 
humble  employment  of  the  loom.f 

"  That  Burns  had  received  no  classical 
education,  and  was  acquainted  with  the 
Greek  and  Roman  authors  only  through 
the  medium  of  translations,  is  a  fact  of 
which  all  who  were  in  the  habits  of  con- 
versing with  him  might  readily  be  con- 
vinced. I  have,  indeed,  seldom  observed 
him  to  be  at  a  loss  in  conversation,  unless 
where  the  dead  languages  and  their  wri- 
ters have  been  the  subjects  of  discussion. 
When  I  have  pressed  him  to  tell  me  why 
he  never  applied  himself  to  acquire  the 
Latin,  in  particular,  a  language  which  his 
happy  memory  would  have  so  soon  ena- 
bled him  to  be  master  of,  he  used  only  to 
reply  with  a  smile,  that  he  had  already 
learned  all  the  Latin  he  desired  to  know, 
and  that  was  omnia  vincit  amor  ;  a  sen- 
tence, that  from  his  writings  and  most  fa- 
vourite pursuits,  it  should  undoubtedly 
seem  that  he  was  most  thoroughly  versed 
in  :  but  I  really  believe  his  classic  erudi- 
tion extended  little,  if  any,  further. 

"  The  penchant  Burns  had  uniformly 
acknowledged  for  the  festive  pleasures  of 
the  table,  and  towards  the  fairer  and  soft- 
er objects  of  nature's  creation,  has  been 
the  rallying  point  from  whence  the  at- 
tacks of  his  censors  have  been  uniformly 
directed:  and  to  these,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, he  showed  himself  no  stoic.  His 
poetical  pieces  blend  with  alternate  hap- 
piness of  description,  the  frolic  spirit  of 
the  flowing  bowl,  or  melt  the  heart  to  the 
tender  and  impassioned  sentiments  in 
which  beauty  always  taught  him  to  pour 
forth  his  own.  But  who  would  wish  to 
reprove  the  feelings  he  has  consecrated 
with  such  lively  touches  of  nature  ?  And 
where  is  the  rugged  moralist  who  will 
persuade  us  so  far  to  '  chill  the  genial 
current  of  the  soul,'  as  to  regret  that  Ovid 
ever  celebrated  his  Corinna,  or  that  An- 
acreon  sung  beneath  his  vine  ? 

*  This  very  respectable  and  very  superior  man  la  now 
removed  to  Dumfriesshire.  He  rents  lands  on  the 
estate  of  Closeburn,  and  is  a  tenant  of  the  venerable 
Dr.  Monteith,  (1800.)     E. 

tThis  destination  is  now  altered-    (1600.1    E- 


70 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


"  I  will  not,  however,  undertake  to  be 
the  apologist  of  the  irregularities  even  of 
a  man  of  genius,  though  I  believe  it  is  as 
certain  that  genius  never  was  free  from 
irregularities,  as  that  their  absolution 
may,  in  a  great  measure,  be  justly  claim- 
ed, since  it  is  perfectly  evident  that  the 
world  had  continued  very  stationary  in  its 
intellectual  acquirements,  had  it.  never 
given  birth  to  any  but  men  of  plain  sense. 
Evenness  of  conduct,  and  a  due  regard  to 
the  decorums  of  the  world,  have  been  so 
rarely  seen  to  move  hand  in  hand  with 
genius,  that  some  have  gone  as  far  as  to 
say,  though  there  I  cannot  wholly  acqui- 
esce, that  they  are  even  incompatible,  be- 
sides the  frailties  that  cast  their  shade 
over  the  splendour  of  superior  merit,  arc 
more  conspicuously  glaring  than  whefe 
they  are  the  attendants  of  mere  mediocri- 
ty. It  is  only  on  the  gem  we  are  disturb- 
ed to  sec  the  dust :  the  pebble  may  be 
soiled,  and  we  never  regard  it.  The  ec- 
centric intuitions  of  genius  too  often  yield 
the  soul  to  the  wild  effervescence  of  de- 
sires, always  unbounded,  and  sometimes 
equally  dangerous  to  the  repose  of  others 
as  fatal  to  its  own.  No  wonder,  then,  if  vir- 
tue herself  be  sometimes  lost  in  the  blaze 
of  kindling  animation,  or  that  the  calm  mo- 
nitions of  reason  are  not  invariably  found 
sufficient  to  fetter  an  imagination,  which 
scorns  the  narrow  limits  and  restrictions 
that  would  chain  it  to  the  level  of  ordina- 
ry minds.  The  child  of  nature,  the  child 
of  sensibility,  unschooled  in  the  rigid  pre- 
cepts of  philosophy,  too  often  unable  to 
control  the  passions  which  proved  a  source 
of  frequent  errors  and  misfortunes  to  him, 
Burns  made  his  own  artless  apoloo-y  in 
language  more  impressive  than  all  the 
argumentatory  vindications  in  the  world 
could  do,  in  one  of  his  own  poems,  where 
he  delineates  the  gradual  expansion  of  his 
mind  to  the  lessons  of  the  '  tutelary  muse,' 
who  concludes  an  address  to  her  pupil,  al- 
most unique  for  simplicity  and  beautiful 
poetry,  with  these  lines  ■ 

"  I  saw  iliy  pulse's  madd'ning play 
Wild  Bend  Hi.  r  pleasure's  devious  way; 
Misled  by  fancy's  meteor  ray 

Ity  passion  driven ; 
But  yet  the  lisjtit  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaven."* 

"  I  have  already  transgressed  beyond 
the  bounds  I  had  proposed  to  myself,  on 
first  committing  this   sketch   to  paper, 

which  comprehends  what  at  least  I  have 

*  Vide  the  Vision— Duan  2d 


been  led  to  deem  the  leading  features  of 
Burns's  mind  and  character  :  a  literary 
critique  I  do  not  aim  at  ;  mine  is  wholly 
fulfilled,  if  in  these  pages  I  have  been 
able  to  delineate  anyofthose  strongtraits, 
that  distinguished  him.  of  those  talents 
which  raised  him  from  the  plough,  where 
he  passed  the  bleak  morning  of  his  life, 
weaving  bis  rude  wreaths  of  poesy  with 
the  wild  field-flowers  that  sprang  around 
his  cottage,  to  that  enviable  eminence  of 
literary  fame,  where  Scotland  will  long 
cherish  his  memory  with  delight  and  gra- 
titude ;  and  proudly  remember,  that  be- 
neath her  cold  sky  a  genius  was  ripened, 
without  care  or  culture,  that  would  have 
done  honour  to  climes  more  favourable  to 
those  luxuriances — that  warmth  of  co- 
louring and  fancy  in  which  he  so  emi- 
nently excelled. 

"  From  several  paragraphs  I  have  no- 
ticed in  the  public  prints,  ever  since  the 
idea  of  sending  this  sketch  to  some  one 
of  them  was  formed  I  find  private  ani- 
mosities have  not  yet  subsisded,  and  that 
envy  has  not  exhausted  all  her  shafts.  I 
still  trust,  however,  that  honest  fame  will 
be  permanently  affixed  to  Burns's  charac- 
ter, which  I  think  it.  will  be  found  he  has 
merited  bythe  candid  and  impartial  among 
his  countrymen.  And  where  a  recollec- 
tion of  the  imprudence  that  sullied  his 
brighter  qualifications  interpose,  let  the 
imperfections  of  all  human  excellence  be 
remembered  at  the  same  time,  leaving 
those  inconsistencies,  which  alternately 
exalted  his  nature  into  the  seraph,  and 
sunk  it  again  into  the  man,  to  the  tribu- 
nal which  alone  can  investigate  the  laby- 
rinths of  the  human  heart — 

1  Where  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose, 
— The  bosom  of  his  father  and  his  God.' 

Gray's  Elegy. 

"  Annandale,  Aug.  7,  1696." 

After  this  account  of  the  life  and  per- 
sonal character  of  Burns,  it  may  be  ex- 
pected that  some  inquiry  should  be  made 
into  his  literary  merits.  It  will  not,  how- 
ever, be  necessary  to  enter  very  minutely 
into  this  investigation.  If  fiction  be,  as 
some  suppose,  the  soul  of  poetry,  no  one 
had  ever  less  pretensions  to  the  name 
of  poet  than  Burns.  Though  he  has  dis- 
played  greal  powers  of  imagination,  yet 
the  subjects  on  which  he  has  written,  are 
seldom,  if  ever,  imaginary!  his  poems,  aa 
well  as  his  letters,  may  be  considered  as 
the  effusions  of  his  sensibility,  and  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


71 


transcript  of  his  own  musings  on  the  real 
incidents  of  his  humble  life.  If  we  add, 
that  they  also  contain  most  happy  deline- 
ations of  the  characters,  manners,  and 
scenery  that  presented  themselves  to  his 
observation,  we  shall  include  almost  all 
thn  subjects  of  his  muse.  His  writings 
may,  therefore,  be  regarded  as  affording 
a  great  part  of  the  data  on  which  our  ac- 
count of  his  personal  character  has  been 
founded;  and  most  of  the  observations  we 
have  applied  to  the  man,  are  applicable, 
with  little  variation,  to  the  poet. 

The  impression  of  his  birth,  and  of  his 
original  station  in  life,  was  not  more  evi- 
dent on  his  form  and  manners,  than  on 
his  poetical  productions.  The  incidents 
which  form  the  subjects  of  his  poems, 
though  some  of  them  highly  interesting, 
and  susceptible  of  poetical  imagery,  are 
incidents  in  the  life  of  a  peasant  who  takes 
no  pains  to  disguise  the  lowliness  of  his 
condition,  or  to  throw  into  shade  the  cir- 
cumstances attending  it,  which  more  fee- 
ble or  more  artificial  minds  would  have 
endeavoured  to  conceal.  The  same  rude- 
ness and  inattention  appears  in  the  for- 
mation of  his  rhymes,  which  are  frequent- 
ly incorrect,  while  the  measure  in  which 
many  of  the  poems  are  written,  has  little 
of  the  pomp  or  harmony  of  modern  versi- 
fication, and  is  indeed  to  an  English  ear, 
strange  and  uncouth.  The  greater  part 
of  his  earlier  poems  are  written  in  the  di- 
alect of  his  country,  which  is  obscure,  if 
not  unintelligible  to  Englishmen  ;  and 
which,  though  it  still  adheres  more  or  less 
to  the  speech  of  almost  every  Scotchman, 
all  the  polite  and  the  ambitious  are  now 
endeavouringto  banish  from  their  tongues 
as  well  as  their  writings.  The  use  of  it 
in  composition  naturally  therefore  calls 
up  ideas  of  vulgarity  in  the  mind.  These 
singularities  are  increased  by  the  charac- 
ter of  the  poet,  who  delights  to  express 
himself  with  a  simplicity  that  approaches 
to  nakedness,  and  with  an  unmeasured 
energy  that  often  alarms  delicacy,  and 
sometimes  offends  taste.  Hence,  in  ap- 
proaching him,  the  first  impression  is  per- 
haps repulsive  :  there  is  an  air  of  coarse- 
ness about  him  which  is  difficultly  recon- 
ciled with  our  established  notions  of  po- 
etical excellence. 

As  the  reader  however  becomes  better 
acquainted  with  the  poet,  the  effects  of 
his  peculiarities  lessen.  He  perceives  in 
his  poems,  even  on  the  lowest  subjects, 
expressions  of  sentiment,  and  delineations 


of  manners,  which  are  highly  interesting- 
The  scenery  he  describes  is  evidently  ta- 
ken from  real  life  ;  the  characters  he  in- 
troduces, and  the  incidents  he  relates, 
have  the  impression  of  nature  and  truth. 
His  humour,  though  wild  and  unbridled, 
is  irresistibly  amusing,  and  is  sometimes 
heightened  in  its  effects  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  emotions  of  tenderness,  with  which 
genuine  humour  so  happily  unites.  Nor 
is  this  the  extent  of  his  power.  The  rea- 
der, as  he  examines  farther,  discovers 
that  the  poet  is  not  confined  to  the  de- 
scriptive, the  humorous,  or  the  pathetic  ; 
he  is  found,  as  occasion  offers,  to  rise  with 
ease  into  the  terrible  and  the  sublime. 
Every  where  he  appears  devoid  of  arti- 
fice performing  what  he  attempts  with 
little  apparent  effort  ;  and  impressing  on 
the  offspring  of  his  fancy  the  stamp  of  his 
understanding.  The  reader,  capable  of 
forming  a  just  estimate  of  poetical  talents, 
discovers  in  these  circumstances  marks 
of  uncommon  genius,  and  is  willing  to  in- 
vestigate more  minutely  its  nature  and  its 
claims  to  originality.  This  last  point  we 
shall  examine  first. 

That  Burns  had  not  the  advantages  of 
a  classsical  education,  or  of  any  degree  of 
acquaintance  with  the  Greek  or  Roman 
writers  in  their  original  dress,  has  appear- 
ed in  the  history  of  his  life.  He  acquired 
indeed  some  knowledge  of  the  French  lan- 
guage, but  it  does  not  appear  that  he  was 
ever  much  conversant  in  French  litera- 
ture, nor  is  there  any  evidence  of  his 
having  derived  any  of  his  poetical  stores 
from  that  source.  With  the  English  clas- 
sics he  became  well  acquainted  in  the 
course  of  his  life,  and  the  effects  of  this 
acquaintance  are  observable  in  his  latter 
productions;  but  the  character  and  style 
of  his  poetry  were  formed  very  early, 
and  the  model  which  he  followed,  in  as 
far  as  he  can  be  said  to  have  had  one,  ia 
to  be  sought  for  in  the  works  of  the  po- 
ets who  have  written  in  the  Scottish  dia- 
lect— in  the  works  of  such  of  them  more 
especially,  as  are  familiar  to  the  peasantry 
of  Scotland.  Some  observations  on  these 
may  form  a  proper  introduction  to  a  more 
particular  examination  of  the  poetry  of 
Burns.  The  studies  of  the  Editor  in  this 
direction  are  indeed  very  recent  and  very 
imperfect.  It  would  have  been  impru- 
dent for  him  to  have  entered  on  this  sub- 
ject at  all,  but  for  the  kindness  of  Mr. 
Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  whose  assistance 
he  is  proud  to  acknowledge,  and  to  whom 
the  reader  must  ascribe  whatever  i3  of 


72 


THE  LTFE  OF  BURNS. 


any  value  in  the  following  imperfect 
sketch  of  literary  compositions  in  the 
Scottish  idiom. 

It  is  a  circumstance  not  a  little  curious, 
and  which  does  not  seem  to  he  satisfac- 
torily explained,  that  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  the  language  of  the  two  British 
nations,  if  at  all  different,  differed  only  in 
the  dialect,  the  Gaelic  in  the  one,  like 
the  Welsh  and  Armoric  in  the  other,  be- 
ing confined  to  the  mountainous  districts.* 
The  English  under  the  IOd wards,  and  the 
Scots  under  Wallace  and  Bruce,  spoke 
the  same  language.  We  may  observe 
also,  that  in  Scotland  the  history  of  poetry 
ascends  to  a  period  nearly  as  remote  as 
in  England.  Barbour,  and  Blind  Harry, 
James  the  First,  Dunbar,  Douglas  and 
Lindsay,  who  lived  in  the  fourteenth,  fif- 
teenth, and  sixteenth  centuries,  were  co- 
eval with  the  fathers  of  poetry  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Whar- 
ton, not  inferior  to  them  in  genius  or  in 
composition.  Though  the  language  of 
the  two  countries  gradually  deviated 
from  each  other  during  this  period,  yet 
the  difference  on  the  whole  was  not  con- 
siderable ;  not  perhaps  greater  than  be- 
tween the  different  dialects  of  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  England  in  our  own  time. 

At  the  death  of  James  the  Fifth,  in 
1542,  the  language  of  Scotland  was  in  a 
flourishing  condition,  wanting  only  wri- 
ters in  prose  equal  to  those  in  verse. 
Two  circumstances,  propitious  on  the 
whole,  operated  to  prevent  this.  The 
first  was  the  passion  of  the  Scots  for  com- 
position in  Latin  ;  and  the  second,  the 
accession  of  James  the  Sixth  to  the  Eng- 
lish throne.  It  may  easily  be  imagined, 
that  if  Buchanan  had  devoted  his  admi- 
rable talents,  even  in  part,  to  the  culti- 
vations of  his  oative  tongue,  as  was  done 
by  the  revivers  of  letters  in  Italy,  he 
would  have  left  compositions  in  that  lan- 
guage which  might  have  incited  other 
men  of  genius  to  have  followed  his  exam- 
ple,! and  given  duration  to  the  language 
itself.  The  union  oft  he  two  crowns  in  the 
person  of  James,  overthrew  all  reasonable 
expectation  of  this  kind.  That  monarch, 
seated  on  the  English  throne,  would  no 
longer  suffer  himself  to  be  addressed  in 
the  rude  dialect  in  which  the  Scottish 

* FIlBtorical  Essay  on  Scottish  Song,  p.  20,  by  M. 
fiitson. 

te  fr.  Th«  Authors  of  the  Dcliriir  Poetarum 
rum,  <$•.:. 


clergy  had  so  often  insulted  his  dignity, 
lie  encouraged  Latin  or  English  only, 
both  of  which  he  prided  himself  on  wri- 
t  ing  \\  it  h  purity,  though  he  himself  never 
could  acquire  the  English  pronunciation, 
hut  .-(Hike  wit  li  :,  idiom  and  into- 

nation 8b  the  last. — Scotsmen  of  talents 
declined  writing  in  their  native  language, 
which  they  knew  was  not  acceptable  to 
their  learned  and  pedantic  monarch  ;  and 
at  a  time  when  national  prejudice  and 
enmity  prevailed  to  a  great  degree,  they 
disdained  to  study  the  niceties  of  the  Eng- 
lish tongue,  though  of  so  much  easier  ac- 
quisition than  a  dead  language.  Lord 
Stirling  and  Drummond  of llawthornden, 
the  only  Scotsmen  who  wrote  poetry  jn 
those  times,  were  exceptions.  They 
studied  the  language  of  England  and  com- 
posed in  it  with  precision  and  elegance. 
They  were  however  the  last  of  their 
countrymen  who  deserved  to  be  consider- 
ed as  poets  in  that  century.  The  muses 
of  Scotland  sunk  into  silence,  and  did  not 
again  raise  their  voices  for  a  period  of 
eighty  years. 

To  what  causes  are  we  to  attribute  this 
extreme  depression  among  a  people  com- 
paratively learned,  enterprising,  and  in- 
genious ?  Shall  we  impute  it  to  the  fa- 
naticism of  the  covenanters,  or  to  the  ty- 
ranny of  the  house  of  Stuart,  after  their 
restoration  to  the  throne  ?  Doubtless 
these  causes  operated,  but  they  seem  un- 
equal to  account  for  the  effect.  In  Eng- 
land, similar  distractions  and  oppression 
took  place,  yet  poetry  flourished  there  in 
a  remarkable  degree.  During  this  period, 
Cowley,  and  Waller,  and  Drydcn  sung, 
and  Milton  raised  his  strain  of  unparallel- 
ed grandeur.  To  the  causes  already  men- 
tioned, another  must  be  added,  in  ac- 
counting for  the  torpor  of  Scottish  litera- 
ture— the  want  of  a  proper  vehicle  for 
men  of  genius  to  employ.  The  civil  wars 
had  frightened  away  the  Latin  MuBes,  and 
no  standard  had  been  established  of  the 
Scottish  tongue,  which  was  deviating  still 
farther  from  the  pure  English  idiom. 

The  revival  of  literature  in  Scotland 
may  be  dated  from  the  establishment  of 
the  union,  or  rather  from  the  extinction 
of  the  rebellion  in  1715.  The  nations  be- 
ing finally  incorporated,  it  was  clearly 
Been  that  their  tongues  must  in  the  end 
incorporate  also;  or  rather  indeed  that 
the  Scottish  language  must  degenerate 
into  a  provincial  idiom,  to  be  avoided  by 
those  who   would  aim    at  distinction  in 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


73 


letters,  or  rise  to  eminence  in  the  united 
legislature. 

Soon  after  this,  a  band  of  men  of  genius 
appeared,  who  studied  the  English  clas- 
sics, and  imitated  their  beauties,  in  the 
same  manner  as  they  studied  the  classics 
of  Greece  and  Rome.     They  had  admi- 
rable models  of  composition  lately  pre- 
sented to  them  by  the  writers  of  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne ;  particularly  in  the  peri- 
odical papers  published  by  Steele,  Addi- 
son, and  their  associated  friends,  which 
circulated  widely  through  Scotland,  and 
diffused  every  where  a  taste  for  purity  of 
style  and  sentiment,  and  for  critical  dis- 
quisition.   At  length  the  Scottish  writers 
succeeded  in  English  composition,  and  a 
union  was  formed  of  the  literary  talents, 
as  well  as  of  the  legislatures  of  the  two 
nations.     On  this  occasion  the  poets  took 
the  lead.  While  Henry  Home,*  Dr.  Wal- 
lace, and  their  learned  associates,  were 
only  laying  in  their  intellectual  stores, 
and  studying  to  clear  themselves  of  their 
Scottish   idioms,  Thomson,  Mallet,  and 
Hamilton  of  Bangour  had  made  their  ap- 
pearance before  the  public,  and  been  en- 
rolled on  the  list  of  English  poets.     The 
writers  in  prose  followed  a  numerous  and 
powerful  band,  and  poured  their  ample 
6tores  into  the  general  stream  of  British 
literature.     Scotland  possessed  her  four 
universities  before  the  accession  of  James 
to  the  English  throne.     Immediately  be- 
fore the  union,  she  acquired  her  parochial 
schools.    These  establishments  combining 
happily  together,  made  the  elements  of 
knowledge  of  easy  acquisition,  and  pre- 
sented a  direct  path,  by  which  the  ardent 
student  might  be  carried  along  into  the 
recesses  of  science  or  learning.     As  civil 
broils  ceased,  and  faction  and  prejudice 
gradually  died  away,  a  wider  field  was 
opened  to  literary  ambition,  and  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Scottish  institutions  for  in- 
struction, on  the  productions  of  the  press, 
became  more  and  more  apparent. 

It  seems  indeed  probable,  that  the  es- 
tablishment of  the  parochial  schools  pro- 
duced effects  on  the  rural  muse  of  Scot- 
land also,  which  have  not  hitherto  been 
suspected,  and  which,  though  less  splen- 
did in  their  nature,  are  not  however  to  be 
regarded  as  trivial,  whether  we  consider 
the  happiness  or  the  morals  of  the  people. 

There  is  some  reason  to  believe,  that 

*  Lord  Kaimes. 


the  original  inhabitants  of  the  British  isles 
possessed  a  peculiar  and  interesting  spe- 
cies of  music,  which  being  banished  from 
the  plains  by  the  successive  invasions  of 
the  Saxons,  Danes,  and  Normans,  was 
preserved  with  the  native  race,  in  the 
wilds  of  Ireland  and  in  the  mountains  of 
Scotland  and  Wales.   The  Irish,  the  Scot- 
tish, and  the  Welsh  music  differ,  indeed, 
from  each  other,  but  the  difference  may 
be  considered  as  in  dialect  only,  and  pro- 
bably produced  by  the  influence  of  time, 
and   like   the   different   dialects  of  their 
common  language.     If  this  conjecture  be 
true,  the  Scottish  music  must  be  more 
immediately  of  a  Highland  origin,  and 
the  Lowland  tunes,  though  now  of  a  cha- 
racter somewhat  distinct,  must  have  de- 
scended from  the  mountains  in  remote 
ages.     Whatever  credit  may  be  given  to 
conjectures,  evidently  involved  in  great 
uncertainty,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  Scottish  peasantry  have  been  long  in 
possession  of  a  number  of  songs  and  bal- 
lads composed  in  their  native  dialect,  and 
sung  to  their  native  music.    The  subjects 
of  these  compositions  were  such  as  most 
interested  the  simple  inhabitants,  and  in 
the  succession  of  time  varied  probably  as 
the  condition  of  society  varied.     During 
the  separation  and  the  hostility  of  the  two 
nations,  these  songs  and  ballads,  as  far  as 
our  imperfect  documents   enable   us   to 
judge,  were  chiefly  warlike ;  such  as  the 
Huntis  of  Cheviot,  and  the  Battle  of  Har- 
low.    After  the  union  of  the  two  crowns, 
when  a  certain  degree  of  peace  and  of 
tranquillity  took  place,  the  rural  muse  of 
Scotland  breathed  in  softer  accents.  "In 
the  want  of  real  evidence  respecting  the 
history  of  our  songs,"  says  Mr.  Ramsay  of 
Ochtertyre,   "  recourse   may  be   had  to 
conjecture.     One  would  be  disposed  to 
think  that  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Scot- 
tish tunes  were  clothed  with  new  words 
after  the  union  of  the  crowns.     The  in- 
habitants of  the  borders,  who  had  former- 
ly been  warriors  from  choice,  and  hus- 
bandmen from  necessity,  either   quitted 
the   country,   or   were  transformed   into 
real  shepherds,  easy  in  their  circumstan- 
ces, and  satisfied  with  their  lot.     Some 
sparks  of  that  spirit  of  chivalry  for  which 
they  are  celebrated  by  Froissart,  remain- 
ed, sufficient  to  inspire  elevation  of  senti- 
ment and  gallantry  towards  the  fair  sex. 
The  familiarity  and  kindness  which  had 
long  subsisted  between  the  gentry  and 
the  peasantry,  could  not  all  at  once  be 
obliterated,  and  this  connexion  tended  to 
sweeten  rural  life.     In  this  state  of  inno- 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


cence,  ease  and  tranquillity  of  mind,  the 
love  of  poetry  and  music  would  still  main- 
tain its  ground,  though  it  would  natural- 
ly assume  a  form  congenial  to  the  more 
peaceful  state  of  society.  The  minstrels, 
whose  metrical  talcs  used  once  to  rouse 
the  borderers  like  the  trumpet's  sound, 
had  been  by  an  order  of  the  legislature 
(in  1579,)  classed  with  rogues  and  vaga- 
bonds, and  attempted  to  be  suppressed. 
Knox  and  his  disciples  influenced  the 
Scottish  parliament,  but  contended  in 
vain  with  her  rural  muse.  Amidst  our 
Arcadian  vales,  probably  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tweed,  or  some  of  its  tributary 
streams,  one  or  more  original  geniuses 
may  have  arisen,  who  were  destined  to 
give  a  new  turn  to  the  taste  of  their  coun- 
trymen. They  would  see  that  the  events 
and  pursuits  which  chequer  private  life 
were  the  proper  subjects  for  popu- 
lar poetry.  Love,  which  had  formerly 
held  a  divided  sway  with  glory  and  am- 
bition, became  now  the  master  passion  of 
the  soul.  To  portray  in  lively  and  deli- 
cate colours,  though  with  a  hasty  hand, 
the  hopes  and  fears  that  agitate  the  breast 
of  the  love-sick  swain,  or  forlorn  maiden, 
affords  ample  scope  to  the  rural  poet. 
Love-songs  of  which  Tibullus  himself 
would  not  have  been  ashamed,  might  be 
composed  by  an  uneducated  rustic  with  a 
slight  tincture  of  letters  ;  or  if  in  these 
songs,  the  character  of  the  rustic  be  some- 
times assumed,  the  truth  of  character,  and 
the  language  of  nature,  are  preserved. 
With  unaffected  simplicity  and  tender- 
ness, topics  are  urged,  most  likely  to  sof- 
ten the  heart  of  a  cruel  and  coy  mistress, 
or  to  regain  a  fickle  lover.  Even  in  such 
as  are  of  a  melancholy  cast,  a  ray  of  hope 
breaks  through,  and  dispels  the  deep  and 
settled  gloom  which  characterizes  the 
sweetest  of  the  Highland  luinags,  or  vo- 
cal airs.  Nor  are  t hese  songs  all  plain- 
tive; many  of  them  are  lively  and  humor- 
ous, and  some  appear  to  us  coarse  and  in- 
delicate. They  seem,  however,  genuine 
descriptions  of  the  manners  of  an  ener- 
getic and  sequestered  people  in  their  hours 
of  mirth  and  festivity,  though  in  their  por- 
traits some  objects  are  broughl  into  open 
view, which  more  fastidious  painters  would 
have  thrown  into  shade. 

"  As  those  rural  poets  sung  for  amuse- 
ment, not  for  gain,  their  effusions  seldom 
exceed,. d  a  love-song,  or  a  ballad  of  sa- 
tire or  humour,  which,  like  the  works  of 
the  elder  minstrel--,  were  seldom  commit- 
ted to  writing,  but  treasure.]  up  in   the 


memory  of  their  friends  and  neighbours. 
.Neither  known  to  the  learned,  nor  patro- 
nised by  the  great,  these  rustic  bards  liv- 
ed and  died  in  obscurity  ;  and  by  a  strange 
fatality,  their  story,  and  even  their  very 
names  have  been  forgotten.*  When  pro- 
per models  for  pastoral  songs  were  pro- 
duced, there  would  he  no  want  of  imita- 
tors. To  succeed  in  this  species  of  com- 
position, soundness  of  understanding,  and 
sensibility  of  heart  were  more  requisite 
than  flights  of  imagination  or  pomp  of 
numbers.  Great  changes  have  certainly 
taken  place  in  Scottish  song-writing, 
though  we  cannot  trace  the  steps  of  this 
change;  and  few  of  the  pieces  admired 
in  Queen  Mary's  time  are  now  to  be  dis- 
covered in  modern  collections.  It  is  pos- 
sible, though  not  probable,  that  the  music 
may  have  remained  nearly  the  same, 
though  the  words  to  the  tunes  were  en- 
tirely ncw-modelled."f 

These  conjectures  are  highly  ingenious. 
It  cannot  however,  be  presumed,  that  the 
state  of  ease  and  tranquillity  described  by 
Mr.  -Ramsay,  took  place  among  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry  immediately  on  the  union 
of  the  crowns,  or  indeed  during  the  great- 
er part  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  Scottish  nation,  through  all  its  ranks, 
was  deeply  agitated  by  the  civil  wars,  and 
the  religious  persecutions  which  succeed- 
ed each  other  in  that  disastrous  period  ; 
it  was  not  till  after  the  revolution  in 
1688,  and  the  subsequent  establishment 
of  their  beloved  form  of  church  govern- 
ment, that  the  peasantry  of  the  Lowlands 
enjoyed  comparative  repose  ;  and  it  is 
since  that  period,  that  a  great  number  of 
the  most  admired  Scottish  songs  have 
been  produced,  though  the  tunes  to  which 
they  arc  sung,  are  in  general  of  much 
greater  antiquity.  It  is  not  unreasona- 
ble to  suppose  that  the  peace  and  securi- 
ty derived  from  the  Revolution  and  the 
Union,  produced  a  favourable  change  on 
the  rustic  poetry  of  Scotland  ;  and  it  can 
scarcely  be  dodbted,  that  the  institution 
of  parish-schools  in  1t3!'fi,  by  which  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  instruction  was  diffused 

*  In  the  Fepys  Collection,  there  arc  a  few  Scottish 
Bongs  oftbe  last  century,  but  tlic  names  of  the  authors 
arc  in  it  preserved. 

t  Extract  of  a  letter  from  Mr.  Ramsay  ofOchtertyre 

to  the  Eilitor,  Sept.  11,  1799.  -In  the  Bee,  vol.  ii.  is  a 
communication  to  Mr.  Ramsay,  under  the  signature  of 
J.  Kuncole,  which  enters  ititn  this  subject  somewhat 
more  at  large.  In  that  paper  be  gives  bis  reasons  for 
questioning  the  antiquity  of  many  of  the  most  celebrated 
Scottish  songB. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


75 


universally  among  the  peasantry,  contri- 
buted to  this  happy  effect. 

Soon  after  this  appeared  Allan  Ram- 
say, the  Scottish  Theocritus.  He  was 
born  on  the  high  mountains  that  divide 
Clydesdale  and  Annandale,  in  a  small 
hamlet  by  the  banks  of  Glangonar,  a 
stream  which  descends  into  the  Clyde. 
The  ruins  of  this  hamlet  are  still  shown 
to  the  inquiring  traveller.*  He  was  the 
son  of  a  peasant,  and  probably  received 
such  instruction  as  his  parish-school  be- 
stowed, and  the  poverty  of  his  parents 
admitted. f  Ramsay  made  his  appearance 
in  Edinburgh  in  the  beginning  of  the  pre- 
sent century,  in  the  humble  character  of 
an  apprentice  to  a  barber,  or  peruke-ma- 
ker ;  he  was  then  fourteen  or  fifteen 
years  of  age.  By  degrees  he  acquired 
notice  for  his  social  disposition,  and  his 
talent  for  the  composition  of  verses  in  the 
Scottish  idiom  ;  and,  changing  his  pro- 
fession for  that  of  a  bookseller,  he  be- 
came intimate  with  many  of  the  literary, 
as  well  as  of  the  gay  and  fashionable  cha- 
racters of  his  time.];  Having  published 
a  volume  of  poems  of  his  own  in  1721, 
which  was  favourably  received,  he  un- 
dertook to  make  a  collection  of  ancient 
Scottish  poems,  under  the  title  of  the  Ever- 
Green,  and  was  afterwards  encouraged  to 
present  to  the  world  a  collection  of  Scot- 
tish songs.  "  From  what  sources  he  pro- 
cured them,"  says  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Och- 
tertyre,  "  whether  from  tradition  or  ma- 
nuscript, is  uncertain.  As  in  the  Ever- 
Green  he  made  some  rash  attempts  to 
improve  on  the  originals  of  his  ancient 
poems,  he  probably  used  still  greater  free- 
dom with  the  songs  and  ballads.  The 
truth  cannot,  however,  be  known  on  this 
point,  till  manuscripts  of  the  songs  printed 
by  him,  more  ancient  than  the  present 
century,  shall  be  produced  ;  or  access  be 

*See  Campbell's  History  of  Poetry  inScotland,  p.  185. 

f  The  father  of  Ramsay  was,  it  is  said,  a  workman 
in  the  lead-mines  of  the  Earl  of  Hopeton,  at  Lead-hills. 
The  workmen  in  those  mines  at  present  are  of  a  very 
superior  character  to  miners  in  general.  They  have 
only  six  hours  of  labour  in  the  day,  and  have  time  for 
reading.  They  have  a  common  library,  supported  by 
contribution,  containing  several  thousand  volumes. 
When  this  was  instituted  I  have  not  learned.  These 
miners  are  said  to  be  of  a  very  sober  and  moral  cha- 
racter: Allan  Ramsay,  when  very  young,  is  supposed 
to  have  been  a  washer  of  ore  in  these  mines. 

\  "  He  was  coeval  with  Joseph  Mitchell,  and  his  club 
of  small  wits,  who  about  1719,  published  a  very  poor 
miscellany,  to  which  Dr.  Young,  the  author  of  the 
Night  Thoughts  prefixed  a  copy  of  verses."  Ex- 
tract of  a  letter  from  Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre  to 
the  Editor. 

S  2 


obtained  to  his  own  papers,  if  they  are 
still  in  existence.  To  several  tunes  which 
either  wanted  words,  or  had  words  that 
were  improper  or  imperfect,  he,  or  his 
friends,  adapted  verses  worthy  of  the  me- 
lodies they  accompanied,  worthy  indeed 
of  the  golden  age.  These  verses  were 
perfectly  intelligible  to  every  rustic,  yet 
justly  admired  by  persons  of  taste,  who 
regarded  them  as  the  genuine  offspring 
of  the  pastoral  muse.  In  some  respects 
Ramsay  had  advantages  not  possessed 
by  poets  writing  in  the  Scottish  dialect 
in  our  days.  Songs  in  the  dialect  of 
Cumberland  or  Lancashire  could  never 
be  popular,  because  these  dialects  have 
never  been  spoken  by  persons  of  fashion. 
But  till  the  middle  of  the  present  century, 
every  Scotsman  from  the  peer  to  the  pea- 
sant, spoke  a  truly  Doric  language.  It 
is  true  the  English  moralists  and  poets 
were  by  this  time  read  by  every  person 
of  condition,  and  considered  as  the  stan- 
dards for  polite  composition.  But,  as  na- 
tional prejudices  were  still  strong,  the 
busy,  the  learned,  the  gay,  and  the  fair, 
continued  to  speak  their  native  dialect, 
and  that  with  an  elegance  and  poignancy, 
of  which  Scotsmen  of  the  present  day  can 
have  no  just  notion.  I  am  old  enough  to 
have  conversed  with  Mr.  Spittal,  of  Leu- 
chat,  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  fashion,  who 
survived  all  the  members  of  the  Union 
Parliament,  in  which  he  had  a  seat.  His 
pronunciation  and  phraseology  differed 
as  much  from  the  common  dialect,  as  the 
language  of  St.  James's  from  that  of 
Thames-street.  Had  we  retained  a  court 
and  parliament  of  our  own,  the  tongues 
of  the  two  sister-kingdoms  would  indeed 
have  differed  like  the  Castilian  and  Por- 
tuguese ;  but  each  would  have  had  its 
own  classics,  not  in  a  single  branch,  but 
in  the  whole  circle  of  literature. 

"  Ramsay  associated  with  the  men  of 
wit  and  fashion  of  his  day,  and  several  of 
them  attempted  to  write  poetry  in  his 
manner.  Persons  too  idle  or  too  dissipa- 
ted to  think  of  compositions  that  required 
much  exertion,  succeeded  very  happily  in 
making  tender  sonnets  to  favourite  tunes 
in  compliment  to  their  mistresses,  and, 
transforming  themselves  into  impassion- 
ed shepherds,  caught  the  language  of  the 
characters  they  assumed.  Thus,  about 
the  year  1731,  Robert  Crawford  of  Auchi- 
names,  wrote  the  modern  song  of  Tweed 
Side,*  which  has  been  so  much  admired. 

*  Beginning,  "  What  beauties  does  Flora  disclose!" 


76 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


In  1 713,  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  the  first  of 
our  lawyers  who  both  spoke  and  wrote 
English  elegantly,  composed,  in  the  cha- 
racter of  a  love-sick  swain,  a  beautiful 
scnLr.  beginnings  My  sheep  I  neglected,  I 
lost  ,m/  sheep-hook,  on  tie  marriage  of  his 
mistress.  Miss  Forbes,  with  Ronald  Craw- 
ford. And  about  twelve  years  after- 
wards, the  sister  of  Sir  Gilbert  wrote  the 
am  it  nt  words  to  the  tune  of  the  FIovh  rs 
of  the  Forest,*  and  supposed  to  allude  to 
the  battle  of  Flowden.  In  spite  of  the 
double  rhyme,  it  is  a  sweet,  and  though 
in  some  parts  allegorical,  a  natural  ex- 
pression of  national  sorrow.  The  more 
modem  words  to  the  same  tune,  beginning, 
1  have  seen  the  smiling  qfjbrtunt  beguiling, 
were  written  long  before  by  Mrs.  Cock- 
burn,  a  woman  of  great  wit,  who  outlived 
all  the  first  group  of  literati,  of  the  pre- 
sent century,  all  of  whom  were  very  fond 
of  her.  I  was  delighted  with  her  com- 
pany, though,  when  I  saw  her,  she  was 
very  old.  Much  did  she  know  that  is 
now  lost." 

In  addition  to  these  instances  of  Scot- 
tish songs  produced  in  the  earlier  part  of 
the  present  century,  may  be  mentioned 
the  ballad  of  Hardiknute,  by  Lady  Ward- 
law  ;  the  ballad  of  William  and  Marga- 
ret ;  and  the  song  entitled  The  Birks  of 
Endermay,  by  Mallet ;  the  love-song,  be- 
ginning, For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove, 
produced  by  the  youthful  muse  of  Thom- 
son ;  and  the  exquisite  pathetic  ballad, 
The  Braes  of  Yarrow,  by  Hamilton  of  Ban- 
gour.  On  the  revival  of  letters  in  Scot- 
land, subsequent  to  the  Union,  a  very 
general  taste  seems  to  have  prevailed  for 
the  national  songs  and  music.  "  For 
many  years,"  says  Mr.  Ramsay,  "  the 
singing  of  songs  was  the  great  delight  of 
the  higher  and  middle  order  of  the  people, 
as  well  as  of  the  peasantry  ;  and  though 
a  taste  for  Italian  music  has  interfered 
with  this  amusement,  it  is  still  very  pre- 
valent. Between  forty  and  fifty  years 
ago,  the  common  people  were  not  only 
exceedingly  fond  of  songs  and  ballads, 
but  of  metrical  history.  Often  have  I,  in 
my  cheerful  morn  of  youth,  listened  to 
them  with  delight,  when  reading  or  re- 
citing the  exploits  of  Wallace  ami  Bruce 
against  the  Southrons.  Lord  llaileswas 
wont  to  call  Blind  Harry  their  Bible,  he 
being  their  great  favourite  next  the  Scrip- 
tures.    When,  therefore,  one  in  the  vale 

*  Beginning,  "I  liave  heard  a  lilting  atourewes- 
milkim;." 


of  life,  felt  the  first  emotions  of  genius, 
he  wanted  not  models  std generis.  But 
though  the  seeds  of  poetry  were  scatter- 
ed u  ith  a  plentiful  band  among  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry,  the  product  was  probably 
hkr  that  of  pears  and  apples — of  a  thou- 
sand that  spring  up,  nine  hundred  and 
fifty  are  so  bad  as  to  set  the  teeth  on 
edge;  forty-five  or  more  are  passable  and 
1  ;  and  the  rest  of  an  exquisite  fla- 
vour. Allan  Ramsay  and  Burns  are 
wildings  of  this  last  description.  They 
had  the  example  of  the  elder  Scottish  po- 
ets ;  they  were  nOt  without  the  aid  of  the 
best  English  writers  ;  and  what  was  of 
still  more  importance,  they  were  no  stran- 
gers to  the  book  of  nature,  and  the  book 
of  God." 

From  this  general  view,  it  is  apparent 
that  Allan  Ramsay  may  be  considered  as 
in  a  great  measure  the  reviver  of  the  ru- 
ral poetry  of  his  country.  His  collection 
of  ancient  Scottish  poems,  under  the 
name  of  The  Ever-Green,  his  collection 
of  Scottish  songs,  and  his  own  poems,  the 
principal  of  which  is  the  Gentle  Shepherd, 
have  been  universally  read  among  the 
peasantry  of  his  country,  and  have  in 
some  degree  superseded  the  adventures 
of  Bruce  and  Wallace,  as  recorded  by 
Barbour  and  Blind  Harry.  Burns  was 
well  acquainted  with  all  these.  He  had 
also  before  him  the  poems  of  Fergusson 
in  the  Scottish  dialect,  which  have  been 
produced  in  our  own  times,  and  of  which 
it  will  be  necessary  to  give  a  short  ac- 
count. 

Fergusson  was  born  of  parents  who  had 
it  in  their  power  to  procure  him  a  liberal 
education,  a  circumstance,  however,  which 
in  Scotland  implies  no  very  high  rank  in 
society.  From  a  well  written  and  appa- 
rently authentic  account  of  his  life,*  we 
learn  that  he  spent  six  years  at  the  schools 
of  Edinburgh  and  Dundee,  and  several 
years  at  the  universities  of  Edinburgh  and 
St.  Andrews.  It  appears  that  he  was  at 
one  time  destined  for  the  Scottish  church ; 
but  as  he  advanced  towards  manhood,  he 
renounced  that  intention,  and  at  Edin- 
burgh entered  the  office  of  a  writer  to  the 
signet,  a  title  which  designates  a  separate 
and  higher  order  of  Scottish  attorneys. 
Fergusson  had  sensibility  of  mind,  a  warm 
and  generous  heart,  and  talents  for  socie- 

*  In  the  supplement  to  tho  "  Encyclopedia  Briuin- 
nica."  Sec  also,  "  Campbell's  Introduction  to  tho  His- 
tory of  "Poetry  in  Scotland,"  p.  23d. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


77 


ty  of  the  most  attractive  kind.  To  such 
a  man  no  situation  could  be  more  danger- 
ous than  that  in  which  he  was  placed. 
The  excesses  into  which  he  was  led,  im- 
paired his  feeble  constitution,  and  he  sunk 
under  them  in  the  month  of  October,  177-1, 
in  his  23d  or  24th  year.  Burns  was  not 
acquainted  with  the  poems  of  this  youth- 
ful genius  when  he  himself  began  to  write 
poetry  ;  and  when  he  first  saw  them  he 
had  renounced  the  muses.  But  while  he 
resided  in  the  town  of  Irvine,  meeting 
with  Fergusson's  Scottish  Poems,  he  in- 
forms us  that  he  "  strung  his  lyre  anew 
with  emulating  vigour."*  Touched  by 
the  sympathy  originating  in  kindred  ge- 
nius, and  in  the  forebodings  of  similar  for- 
tune, Burns  regarded  Fergusson  with  a 
partial  and  an  affectionate  admiration. 
Over  his  grave  he  erected  a  monument, 
as  has  already  been  mentioned ;  and  his 
poems  he  has,  in  several  instances,  made 
tae  subjects  of  his  imitation. 

From  this  account  of  the  Scottish  po- 
ems known  to  Burns,  those  who  are  ac- 
quainted with  them  will  see  that  they  are 
chiefly  humorous  or  pathetic  ;  and  under 
one  or  other  of  these  descriptions  most  of 
his  own  poems  will  class.  Let  us  com- 
pare him  with  his  predecessors  under  each 
of  these  points  of  view,  and  close  our  ex- 
amination with  a  few  general  observa- 
tions. 

It  has  frequently  been  observed,  that 
Scotland  has  produced,  comparatively 
speaking,  few  writers  who  have  excelled 
in  humour.  But  this  observation  is  true 
only  when  applied  to  those  who  have  con- 
tinued to  reside  in  their  own  country,  and 
have  confined  themselves  to  composition 
in  pure  English ;  and  in  these  circum- 
stances it  admits  of  an  easy  explanation. 
The  Scottish  poets,  who  have' written  in 
the  dialect  of  Scotland,  have  been  at  all 
times  remarkable  for  dwelling  on  subjects 
of  humour,  in  which  indeed  many  of  them 
have  excelled.  It  would  be  easy  to  show, 
that  the  dialect  of  Scotland  having  be- 
come provincial,  is  now  scarcely  suited  to 
the  more  elevated  kinds  of  poetry.  If  we 
may  believe  that  the  poem  of  Christis 
Kirk  of  the  Grene  was  written  by  James 
the  First  of  Scotland,!  this  accomplished 

*  See  p.  15- 

t  Notwithstanding  the  evidence  produced  on  this  sub- 
ject by  Mr.  Tytler,  the  Editor  acknowledges  his  being 
somewhat  of  a  sceptic  on  this  point.  Sir  David  Dal- 
rymple  inclines  to  the  opinion  that  it  wus  written  by 


monarch,  who  had  received  an  English 
education  under  the  direction  of  Henry 
the  Fourth,  and  who  bore  arms  under  his 
gallant  successor,  gave  the  model  on  which 
the  greater  part  of  the  humorous  produc- 
tions of  the  rustic  muse  of  Scotland  has 
been  formed.  Christis  Kirk  of  the  Grene 
was  reprinted  by  Ramsay,  somewhat  mo- 
dernized in  the  orthography,  and  two  can- 
toes  were  added  by  him,  in  which  he  at- 
tempts to  carry  on  the  design.  Hence  the 
poem  of  King  James  is  usually  printed  in 
Ramsay's  works.  The  royal  bard  de- 
scribes, in  the  first  canto,  a  rustic  dance, 
and  afterwards  a  contention  in  archery, 
ending  in  an  affray.  Ramsay  relates  the 
restoration  of  concord,  and  the  renewal 
of  the  rural  sports,  with  the  humours  of  a 
country  wedding.  Though  each  of  the 
poets  describes  the  manners  of  his  respec- 
tive age,  yet  in  the  whole  piece  there  is 
a  very  sufficient  uniformity ;  a  striking 
proof  of  the  identity  of  character  in  the 
Scottish  peasantry  at  the  two  periods,  dis- 
tant from  each  other  three  hundred  years 
It  is  an  honourable  distinction  to  this  bo- 
dy of  men,  that  their  character  and  man- 
ners, very  little  embellished,  have  been 
found  to  be  susceptible  of  an  amusing  and 
interesting  species  of  poetry;  and  it  must 
appear  not  a  little  curious,  that  the  single 
nation  of  modern  Europe,  which  possess- 
es an  original  rural  poetry,  should  have 
received  the  model,  followed  by  their  rus- 
tic bards,  from  the  monarch  on  the  throne. 

The  two  additional  cantoes  to  Christis 
Kirk  of  the  Grene,  written  by  Ramsay, 
though  objectionable  in  point  of  delicacy, 
are  among  the  happiest  of  his  productions. 
His  chief  excellence,  indeed,  lay  in  the 
description  of  rural  characters,  incidents, 
and  scenery ;  for  he  did  not  possess  any 
very  high  powers  either  of  imagination  or 
of  understanding.  He  was  well  acquaint- 
ed with  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  their 
lives  and  opinions.  The  subject  was  in  a 
great  measure  new ;  his  talents  were  equal 
to  the  subject;  and  he  has  shown  that  it 
may  be  happily  adapted  to  pastoral  poe- 
try. In  his  Gentle  Shepherd  the  charac- 
ters are  delineations  from  nature,  the  de- 
scriptive parts  are  in  the  genuine  style  of 
beautiful  simplicity,  the  passions  and  af- 
fections of  rural  life  are  finely  portrayed, 
and  the  heart  is  pleasingly  interested  in 

his  successor,  James  the  Fifth.  There  are  difficulties 
attending  this  supposition  also.  But  on  the  subject  of 
Scottish  Antiquities,  the  Editor  is  an  incompetent 
judge. 


7fi 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


the  happiness  that  is  bestowed  on  inno- 
cence and  virtue.  Throughout  the  whole 
there  is  an  air  of  reality  which  the  most 
careless  reader  cannot  but  perceive;  and 
in  tact  no  poem  ever  perhaps  acquired  so 
high  a  reputation,  in  which  truth  received 
so  little  embellishment  from  the  imagina- 
tion. In  his  pastoral  songs,  and  in  his 
rural  tales,  Ramsay  appears  to  less  ad- 
vantage indeed,  but  still  with  considera- 
ble attraction.  The  story  of  the  Monk 
and  the  Miner's  Wife,  though  somewhat 
licentious,  may  rank  with  the  happiesl 
productions  of  Prior  or  La  Fontaine.  But 
when  he  attempts  subjects  from  higher 
life,  and  aims  at  pure  English  composition, 
he  is  feeble  and  uninteresting,  and  seldom 
wer  reaches  mediocrity.*  Neither  are 
his  familiar  epistles  and  elegies  in  the 
Scottish  dialect  entitled  to  much  approba- 
tion. Though  Fergusson  had  higher  pow- 
ers of  imagination  than  Ramsay,  his  ge- 
nius was  not  of  the  highest  order  ;  nor  did 
his  learning,  which  was  considerable,  im- 
prove his  genius.  His  poems  written  in 
pure  English,  in  which  he  often  follows 
classical  models,  though  superior  to  the 
English  poems  of  Ramsay,  seldom  rise 
above  mediocrity ;  but  in  those  composed 
in  the  Scottish  dialect  he  is  often  very 
successful.  He  was  in  general,  however, 
less  happy  than  Ramsay  in  the  subjects  of 
his  muse.  As  he  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  in  Edinburgh,  and  wrote  for  his 
amusement  in  the  intervals  of  business  or 
dissipation,  his  Scottish  poems  are  chiefly 
founded  on  the  incidents  of  a  town  life, 
which,  though  they  are  susceptible  of  hu- 
mour, do  not  admit  of  those  delineations 
of  scenery  and  manners,  which  vivify  the 
rural  poetry  of  Ramsay,  and  which  so 
agreeably  amuse  the  fancy  and  interest 
the  heart.  The  town-eclogues  of  Fer- 
gusson, if  we  may  so  denominate  them, 
are  however  faithful  to  nature,  and  often 
distinguished  by  a  very  happy  vein  of  hu- 
mour. His  poems  entitled.  The  Drift 
Days,  Thr  King's  Birth-day  in  Edin- 
burgh, Leith  Races,  and  The  Hallow  Fair, 
will  justify  this  character.  In  these,  par- 
ticularly in  the  last,  he  imitated  Christis 
Kirk  of  thr  Grene,  as  Ramsay  had  dour 
before  him.  His  Address  to  thr  Tronkirk 
Bell  is  an  exquisite  piece  of  humour, 
which  Burns  has  scarcely  excelled.  In 
appreciating  the  genius  of  Fergusson,  it. 
ought  to  be  recollected,  thai  his  poem:: 
are  the  careless  effusions  of  an  irregular, 
though  amiable  young  man,  who  wrote 

*  See  "  Tho  Morning  Interview,"  &.c- 


for  the  periodical  papers  of  the  day,  and 
who  died  in  early  youth.  Had  his  life 
been  prolonged  under  happier  circum- 
stances offortune,  he  would  probably  have 
risen  to  much  higher  reputation.  He  might 
have  excelled  in  rural  poetry;  for  though 
his  professed  pastorals  on  the  established 
Sicilian  model,  are  stale  and  uninterest- 
ing, T  which  may  be 
considered  as  a  Scottish  pastoral,  is  the 
happiest  of  all  his  productions,  and  cer- 
tainly was  the  archetype  of  the  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night.  Fergusson,  and  more 
ally  Burns,  have  shown  that  the 
character  and  manners  of  the  peasantry  of 
Scotland  of-the  present  times,  are  as  well 
adapted  to  poetry,  as  in  the  days  of  Ram- 
say, or  of  the  author  of  Christis  Kirk  of 
the  Grene. 

The  humour  of  Burns  is  of  a  richer  vein 
than  that  of  Ramsay  or  Fergusson,  both 
of  whom,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  he  had 
"  frequently  in  his  eve,  but  rather  with  a 
view  to  kindle  at  their  flame,  than  to  ser- 
vile imitation. "f  His  descriptive  powers, 
whether  the  ohjocts  on  which  they  are 
employed  be  comic  or  serious,  animate  or 
inanimate,  are  of  the  highest  order.  A 
superiority  of  this  kind  is  essential  to 
every  species  of  poetical  excellence.  In 
one  of  his  earlier  poems,  his  plan  seems 
to  be  to  inculcate  a  lesson  of  contentment 
in  the  lower  classes  of  society,  by  showing 
that  their  superiors  are  neither  much  bet- 
ter nor  happier  than  themselves  ;  and 
this  In'  chooses  to  execute  in  a  form  of  a 
dialogue  between  two  dogs.  He  intro- 
duces this  dialogue  by  an  account  of  the 
persons  and  characters  of  the  speakers. 
The  first,  whom  he  has  named  Crcsar,  is 
a  dog  of  condition  : 

"  II is  Incited,  letter'd,  braw  bmss  collar, 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar." 

High-bred  though  he  is,  he  is  however 
full  of  condescension  : 

"  At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddin, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  tho,  e'er  sae  duddie, 
But  he  wad  Btawn't,  as  glad  to  see  him, 
And  stroan't  on  stancs  an'  hillocks  v>V  him." 

The  other.  Luath,  is  a  "  ploughman's  col- 
lie, but  a  cur  of  a  good  heart  and  a  sound 
understanding. 

"  His  honest,  ponsie,  baws'nt  face, 
Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place; 


*  The  farmer's  firo-sidc. 


|  See  Appendix. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


79 


His  breast  was  white,  his  towsie  back 
Weel  clad  \vi'  coat  o'  glossy  black. 
His  gawcie  tail,  wV  upward  curl, 
Hung  o'er  Ids  hurdies  ici'  a  swurl." 

Never  wore  twa  dogs  so  exquisitely  de- 
lineated. Their  gambols  before  they  sit 
down  to  moralize,  are  described  with  an 
equal  degree  of  happiness;  and  through 
1  be  whole  dialogue,  the  character,  as  well 
as  the  different  condition  of  the  two  speak- 
ers, is  kept  in  view.  The  speech  ofLuath, 
in  which  he  enumerates  the  comforts  of 
the  poor,  gives  the  following  account  of 
their  merriment  on  the  first  day  of  the 
year  : 

'  That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds ; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream, 
And  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam  ; 
The  luntin  pipe,  and  sneeshin  mill, 
Are  handed  round  wi'  richt  guid-  will 
The  can  tie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 
The  young  anes  rantin  thro'  the  house, 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 

That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  vsi'  them." 

Of  all  the  animals  who  have  moralized 
on  human  affairs  since  the  days  of  iEsop, 
the  dog  seems  best  entitled  to  this  privi- 
lege, as  well  from  his  superior  sagacity,  as 
from  his  being  more  than  any  other,  the 
friend  and  associate  of  man.  The  dogs 
of  Burns,  excepting  in  their  talent  for 
moralizing,  are  downright  dogs  ;  and  not 
like  the  horses  of  Swift,  or  the  Hind  and 
Panther  of  Dryden,  men  in  the  shape  of 
brutes.  It  is  this  circumstance  that 
heightens  the  humour  of  the  dialogue. 
The  "  twa  dogs"  are  constantly  kept  be- 
fore our  eyes,  and  the  contrast  between 
their  form  and  character  as  dogs,  and  the 
sagacity  of  their  conversation,  heightens 
the  humour  and  deepens  the  impression 
of  the  poets,  satire.  Though  in  this  poem 
the  chief  excellence  maybe  considered  as 
humour,  yet  great  talents  are  displayed 
in  its  composition  ;  the  happiest  powers 
of  description  and  the  deepest  insight  in- 
to the  human  heart.*     It  is  seldom,  how- 

*  When  this  poem  first  appeared,  it  was  thought  by 
some  very  surprising  that  a  peasant,  who  had  not  an 
opportunity  of  associating  even  with  a  simple  gentle- 
man, should  have  been  able  to  portray  the  character  of 
high-life  with  such  accuracy.  And  when  it  was  recol- 
lected that  he  had  probably  been  at  the  races  of  Ayr, 
where  nobility  as  well  as  gentry  are  to  be  seen,  it  was 
concluded  that  the  race-ground  had  been  the  field  of  his 
observation.  This  was  sagacious  enough ;  but  it  did 
not  require  such  instruction  to  inform  Burns,  that  hu- 
man nature  is  essentially  the  same  in  the  high  and  the 
low;  and  a  genius  which  comprehends  the  human 
mind,  easily  comprehends  the  accidental  varieties  in- 
troduced by  situation. 


ever,  that  the  humour  of  Burns  appears^ 
in  so  simple  a  form.  The  liveliness  of 
his  sensibility  frequently  impels  him  to 
introduce  into  subjects  of  humour,  emo- 
tions of  tenderness  or  of  pity  ;  and  where 
occasion  admits,  he  is  sometimes  carried 
on  to  exert  the  higher  powers  of  imagi- 
nation. In  such  instances  he  leaves  the 
society  of  Ramsay  and  of  Fergusson,  and 
associates  himself  with  the  masters  of 
English  poetry,  whose  language  he  fre- 
quently assumes. 

Of  the  union  of  tenderness  and  humour, 
examples  may  be  found  in  The  Death  and 
Dying  Words  of  poor  Mailie,  in  The  Auld 
Farmer's  New-Year's  Morning  Salutation 
to  his  Mare  Maggie,  and  in  many  of  his 
other  poems.  The  praise  of  whiskey  is 
a  favourite  subject  with  Burns.  To  this 
he  dedicates  his  poem  of  Scotch  Drink. 
After  mentioning  its  cheering  influence 
in  a  variety  of  situations,  he  describes, 
with  singular  liveliness  and  power  of  fan- 
cy, its  stimulating  effects  on  the  black- 
smith working  at  his  forge  : 

"  Nae  mercy,  then,  for  aim  or  steel  ; 
The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel, 
Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel, 

The  strong  fore  hammer, 
Till  block  an'  studdie  ring  an'  reel 

Wi'  dinsome  clamour." 

On  another  occasion,*  choosing  to  exalt 
whiskey  above  wine,  he  introduces  a  com- 
parison between  the  natives  of  more  ge- 
nial climes,  to  whom  the  vine  furnishes 
their  beverage,  and  his  own  countrymen 
who  drink  the  spirit  of  malt.  The  de- 
scription of  the  Scotsmen  is  humorous : 

"  But  bring  a  Scotsman  frae  his  hill, 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a'  Highland  gill, 
Say  such  is  Royal  George's  will, 

An'  there's  the  foe, 
He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow." 

Here  the  notion  of  danger  rouses  the 
imagination  of  the  poet.  He  goes  on  thus : 

"  Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him  ; 
Death  comes,  wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees  him  ; 
Wi'  bluidy  hand  a  welcome  gies  him 

An'  when  he  fa's, 
His  latest  draught  o'breathing  lea'cs  him 

In  faint  huzzas." 

Again,  however,  he  sinks  into  humour, 
and  concludes  the  poem  with  the  follow- 

*  "  The  Author's  Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer  to  the 
Scotch  Representatives  in  Parliament." 


80 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


ing  most  laughable,  but  most  irreverent 
apostrophe : 

tland,  my  auld  respected  Milhcr! 
Tho'  whiles  ye  moistify  your  leathery 
Till  whore  ye  Bit,  on  craps  o*  heather, 

Yc  tine  your  dam  : 
Freedom  and  whiskey  gang  tbegither, 
Tak  olfyour  dram! 

Of  this  union  of  humour  with  the  high- 
er powers  of  imagination,  instances  may 
be  found  in  the  poem  entitled  Death  ana 
Dr.  Hornbook,  and  in  almost  every  stan- 
za of  the  Address  to  the  Deil,  one  of  the 
happiest  of  his  productions.  After  re- 
proaching this  terrible  being  with  all  his 
"  doings"  and  misdeeds,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  passes  through  a  series  of  Scot- 
tish superstitions,  and  rises  at  times  into 
a  high  strain  of  poetry  ;  he  concludes  this 
address,  delivered  in  a  tone  of  great  fa- 
miliarity, not  altogether  unmixed  with 
apprehension,  in  the  following  words  : 

"  But.  farfi  ye  weel,  auld  Nickie  ben! 
O  wad  you  tak  a  thought  an'  meu' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den 

E'en  for  your  sake  !" 

Humour  and  tenderness  are  here  so 
happily  intermixed,  that  it  is  impossible 
to  say  which  preponderates. 

Fergusson  wrote  a  dialogue  between 
the  Causi  way  and  the  Plainstones*  of  Ed- 
inburgh. This  probably  suggested  to 
Burns  his  dialogue  between  the  Old  and 
the  New  bridge  over  the  river  Ayr.f 
The  nature  of  such  subjects  requires  that 
they  shall  be  treated  humorously,  and 
Fergusson  has  attempted  nothing  beyond 
this.  Though  the  Causeway  and  the 
Plainstones  talk  too-other,  no  attempt  is 
made  to  personify  the  speakers.  A  "ca- 
die"{  heard  the  conversation  and  report- 
ed it  to  the  poet. 

Tn  the  dialogue  between  the  Brigs  of 
Ayr,  Burns  himself  is  the  auditor,  and  the 
time  and  occasion  on  which  it  occurred  is 
related  with  great  circumstantiality.  The 
poet,  "  pressed  by  care,"  or  "  inspired  by 
whim,"  had  left  his  bed  in  the  town  of 
Ayr,  and  wandered  out  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness and  solitude  of  a  winter  night,  to  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  where  the  stillness 

»  The  middle  of  the  street,  and  the  side-way. 

t  The  Brigs  of  Ayr,  Toems,  p.  13.        t  A  messenger. 


was  interrupted  only  by  the  rushing  sound 
of  the  influx  of  the  tide.  It  was  after 
midnight.  The  Dungeon-clock*  had 
struck  two.  and  the  sound  had  been  re- 
peated by  Wallace-Tower.*  All  else 
was  hushed.  The  moon  shone  brightly, 
and 

"  The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 

Crept,  gently  crusting,  o'er  the  glittering  stream." — 

In  this  situation  the  listening  bard  hears 
the  "  clanging  sugh"  of  wings  moving 
through  the  air,  and  speedily  he  perceives 
two  beings,  reared  the  one  on  the  Old,  the 
other  on  the  New  Bridge,  whose  form 
and  attire  he  describes,  and  whose  con- 
versation with  each  other  he  rehearses. 
These  genii  enter  into  a  comparison  of 
the  respective  edifices  over  which  they 
preside,  and  afterwards,  as  is  usual  be- 
tween the  old  and  young,  compare  mo- 
dern characters  and  manners  with  those 
of  past  times.  They  differ,  as  may  be  ex- 
pected, and  taunt  and  scold  each  other 
in  Broad  Scotch.  This  conversation, 
which  is  certainly  humorous,  may  be  con- 
sidered as  the  proper  business  of  the  po- 
em. As  the  debate  runs  high,  and  threat- 
ens serious  consequences,  all  at  once  it  is 
interrupted  by  a  new  scene  of  wonders  : 

" all  before  their  sight 

A  fairy  train  appeard  in  order  bright; 
Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  dane'd  ; 
Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanc'd ; 
They  footed  o'er  the  watry  glass  so  neat, 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet; 
While  arts  of  Minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 
And  soul-ennobling  Bards  heroic  ditties  sung." 


"  The  Genius  of  the  Stream  in  front  appears — 
A  venerable  chief,  advane'd  in  years ; 
His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown'd. 
His  manly  leg  with  garter-tangle  bound." 

Next  follow  a  number  of  other  allego- 
rical beings,  among  whom  are  the  four 
seasons,  Rural  Joy,  Plenty,  Hospitality, 
and  Courage 

"  Benevolence,  with  mild  benignant  air, 
A  female  form,  came  from  the  tow'rs  of  Stair ; 
Learning  and  Wealth  in  equal  measures  trode, 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-lov'd  abode; 
Last,   white-robed  Peace,    crown'd  with  a  hazel- 
wreath, 
To  rustic  Agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  Instrument  of  Death  ; 
At  sight  of  whom  our  sprites  forgat  their  kindling 
wrath." 

*  The  two  steeples  of  Ayr. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


81 


This  poem,  irregular  and  imperfect  as 
it  is,  displays  various  and  powerful  ta- 
lents, and  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  ge- 
nius of  Burns.     In  particular,  it.  affords  a 

striking  instance  of  his  being  carried  be- 
yond his  original  purpose  by  the  powers 
of  imagination. 

In  Fergusson's  poems,  the  Plainstones 
and  Causeway  contrast  the  characters  of 
the  different  persons  who  walked  upon 
them.  Burns  probably  conceived,  that, 
by  a  dialogue  between  the  Old  and  New 
Bridge,  he  might  form  a  humorous 
contrast  between  ancient  and  modern 
manners  in  the  town  of  Ayr.  Such  a 
dialogue  could  only  be  supposed  to  pass 
in  the  stillness  of  night  ;  and  this  led  our 
poet  into  a  description  of  a  midnight 
scene,  which  excited  in  a  high  degree  the 
powers  of  his  imagination.  During  the 
whole  dialogue  the  scenery  is  present  to 
his  fancy,  and  at  length  it  suggests  to  him 
a  fairy  dance  of  aerial  beings,  under  the 
beams  of  the  moon,  by  which  the  wrath 
of  the  Genii  of  the  Brigs  of  Ayr  is  ap- 
peased. 

Incongruous  as  the  different  parts  of 
this  poem  are,  it  is  not  an  incongruity 
that  displeases  ;  and  we  have  only  to  re- 
gret that  the  poet  did  not  bestow  a  little 
pains  in  making  the  figures  more  correct, 
and  in  smoothing  the  versification. 

The  epistles  of  Burns,  in  which  may  be 
included  his  Dedication  to  G.  H.  Esq. 
discover,  like  his  other  writings,  the  pow- 
ers of  a  superior  understanding.  They 
display  deep  insight  into  human  nature, 
a  gay  and  happy  strain  of  reflection,  great 
independence  of  sentiment,  and  generosi- 
ty of  heart.  It  is  to  be  regretted,  that, 
in  his  Holy  Fair,  and  in  some  of  his  other 
poems,  his  humour  degenerates  into  per- 
sonal satire,  and  that  it  is  not  sufficiently 
guarded  in  other  respects.  The  Hallow- 
een of  Burns  is  free  from  every  objection 
of  this  sort.  It  is  interesting,  not  merely 
from  its  humorous  description  of  manners, 
but  as  it  records  the  spells  and  charms 
used  on  the  celebration  of  a  festival,  now, 
even  in  Scotland,  falling  into  neglect,  but 
which  was  once  observed  over  the  great- 
er part  of  Britain  and  Ireland.*  These 
charms  are  supposed  to  afford  an  insight 
into  futurity,  especially  on  the  subject  of 
marriage,  the  most  interesting  event  of 

*  In  Ireland  it  is  Ptill  celebrated.  It  is  not  quite  in 
disuse  in  Wales. 


rural  life.  In  the  Halloween,  a  female  in 
performing  one  of  the  spells,  has  occasion 
to  go  out  by  moonlight  to  dip  her  shift- 
sleeve  into  a  stream  running  towards  the 
South.*  It  was  not  necessary  for  Burns  to 
give  a  description  of  this  stream.  But  it 
was  the  character  of  his  ardent  mind  to 
pour  forth  not  merely  what  the  occasion 
required,  but  what  it  admitted  ;  and  the 
temptation  to  describe  so  beautiful  a  natu- 
ral object  by  moonlight,  was  not  to  be 
resisted. 

"  Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays 

As  thro*  the  glen  it  wimpl't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays  ; 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't ; 
Whyles  glittcr'd  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel, 

Unseen  that  night." 

Those  who  understand  the  Scottish  di- 
alect will  allow  this  to  be  one  of  the  finest 
instances  of  description  which  the  records 
of  poetry  afford.  Though  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent nature,  it  may  be  compared  in  point 
of  excellence  with  Thomson's  description 
of  a  river  swollen  by  the  rains  of  winter, 
bursting  through  the  straights  that  con- 
fine its  torrent,  "  boiling,  wheeling,  foam- 
ing, and  thundering  along."f 

In  pastoral,  or,  to  speak  more  correct- 
ly, in  rural  poetry  of  a  serious  nature, 
Burns  excelled  equally  as  in  that  of  a  hu- 
morous kind  ;  and,  using  less  of  the  Scot- 
tish dialect  in  his  serious  poems,  he  be- 
comes more  generally  intelligible.  It  is 
difficult  to  decide  whether  the  Address  to  a 
Mouse,  whose  nest  was  turned  up  with  the 
plough,  should  be  considered  as  serious  or 
comic.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  poem  is 
one  of  the  happiest  and  most  finished  of 
his  productions.  If  we  smile  at  the  "  bick- 
ering battle"  of  this  little  flying  animal, 
it  is  a  smile  of  tenderness  and  pity.  The 
descriptive  part  is  admirable  ;  the  moral 
reflections  beautiful,  and  arising  directly 
out  of  the  occasion ;  and  in  the  conclu- 
sion there  is  a  deep  melancholy,  a  senti- 
ment of  doubt  and  dread,  that  rises  to  the 
sublime.  The  Address  to  a  Mountain 
Daisy,  turned  down  with  the  plough,  is  a 
poem  of  the  same  nature,  though  some- 
what inferior  in  point  of  originality,  as 
well  as  in  the  interest  produced.  To  ex- 
tract  out  of  incidents   so  common,   and 

*See  "  Halloween,"  Stanzas  xxiv.  and  xrv. 
t  See  Thomson's  Winter. 


82 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


seemingly  so  trivial  as  those,  so  fine  a 
train  of  sentiment  and  imagery,  is  the 
6iirest  proof,  as  well  as  the  most  brilliant 
triumph,  of  original  genius.  The  Vision, 
in  two  cantoes,  from  which  a  beautiful 
exl  racl  is  taken  by  Mr.  Mackenzie,  in  the 
97th  number  of  The  Lounger,  is  a  poem 
of  great  and  various  excellence.  The 
opening,  in  winch  the  poet  describes  his 
own  state  of  mind,  retiring  in  the  even- 
ing, wearied  from  the  labours  of  the  day, 
to  moralize  on  his^conducl  and  prospet  ts, 
is  truly  interesting.  The  chamber,  if  we 
may  so  term  it,  in  which  he  sits  down  to 
muse,  is  an  exquisite  painting  : 

"  There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-clicek 
I  sat  and  ey'd  the  spewing  reek, 
That  fill'd,  wi'  hoast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auld  clay  biggin  ; 
An'  beard  the  restless  rations  squeak 

About  the  riggin." 

To  reconcile  to  our  imagination  the  en- 
trance of  an  aerial  being  into  a  mansion 
of  tins  kind,  required  the  powers  of  Burns 
— he  however  succeeds.  Coila  enters,  and 
her  countenance,  attitude,  and  dress,  un- 
like those  of  other  spiritual  beings,  are 
distinctly  portrayed.  To  the  painting,  on 
her  mantle,  on  which  is  depicted  the  most 
striking  scenery,  as  well  as  the  most  dis- 
tinguished characters,  of  his  native  coun- 
try, some  exceptions  may  be  made.  The 
mantle  of  Coila,  like  the  cup  of  Thyrsis,* 
and  the  shield  of  Achilles,  is  too  much 
crowded  with  figures,  and  some  of  the 
objects  represented  upon  it  are  scarcely 
admissible,  according  to  the  principles  of 
design.  The  generous  temperament  of 
Burns  led  him  into  these  exuberances.  In 
his  second  edition  he  enlarged  the  num- 
ber of  figures  originally  introduced,  that 
he  might  include  objects  to  which  he  was 
attached  by  sentiments  of  affection,  gra- 
l  itude,  or  patriotism.  The  second  Dunn, 
or  canto  of  this  poem,  in  which  Coila  de- 
scribes her  own  nature  and  occupations, 
particularly  her  superintendence  of  his 
infant  genius,  and  in  which  she  reconciles 
him  to  the  character  of  a  hard,  is  an  ele- 
vated and  solemn  strain  of  poetry,  ranking 
in  all  respects,  excepting  the  harmony  of 
numbers,  with  the  higher  productions  of 
the  English  muse.  The  concluding  stan- 
za, compared  with  thai  already  quoted, 
will  show  to  what  a  height  Burns  rises  in 
this  poem,  from  the  point  at  which  he  set 
out : — 

*  Sec  the  first  Idyllium  of  Theocritus. 


"  And  wear  thou  this — she  solemn  said, 
And,  bound  the  Jlollij  round  my  head: 
The  polish'd  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

Did  rustling  play  ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 

In  light  away." 

In  various  poems,  Burns  has  exhibited 
the  picture  of  a  mind  under  the  deep  im- 
pressions of  real  sorrow.  The  Lament, 
the  Ode  to  Ruin,  Despondency,  and  Win- 
ter,  a  Dirge,  are  of  this  character.  In 
the  first  of  these  poems,  the  8th  stanza, 
which  describes  a  sleepless  night  from 
anguish  of  mind,  is  particularly  striking. 
Burns  often  indulged  in  those  melancholy 
views  of  the  nature  and  condition  of  man, 
which  are  so  congenial  to  the  tempera- 
ment of  sensibility.  The  poem  entitled 
Man  was  made  to  Mourn,  affords  an  in- 
stance of  this  kind,  and  The  Winter  Night 
is  of  the  same  description.  The  last  is 
highly  characteristic,  both  of  the  temper 
of  mind,  and  of  the  condition  of  Burns.  It 
begins  with  a  description  of  a  dreadful 
storm  on  a  night  in  winter.  The  poet  re- 
presents himself  as  lying  in  bed,  and  lis- 
tening to  its  howling.  In  this  situation  he 
naturally  turns  his  thoughts  to  the  oicrie 
Cattle  and  the  silly  Slurp,  exposed  to  all 
the  violence  of  the  tempest.  Having  la- 
mented their  fate,  he  proceeds  in  the  fol- 
lowing manner : 

"  Ilk  happing  bird — wee,  helpless  thing! 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  1 
Whare  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  cluttering  wing, 

An'  close  thy  e'e'?" 

Other  reflections  of  the  same  nature 
occur  to  his  mind ;  and  as  the  midnight 
moon  "  muffled  with  clouds"  casts  her 
dreary  light  on  his  window,  thoughts  of  a 
darker  and  more  melancholy  nature  crowd 
upon  him.  In  this  state  of  mind,  he  hears 
a  voice  pouring  through  the  gloom  a  so- 
lemn and  plaintive  strain  of  reflection. 
The  mourner  compares  the  fury  of  the 
elements  with  that  of  man  to  his  brother 
man,  and  finds  the  former  light  in  the  ba- 
lance. 

"  See  stem  oppression's  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  ambition's  gory  hand, 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 

Wo,  want,  and  murder,  o'er  a  land !" 

He  pursues  this  train  of  reflection 
through  a  variety  of  particulars,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  introduces  the  follow- 
ing animated  apostrophe: 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


01 


"  Oh  yc!  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 

Think,  tor  a  moment,  on  his  wretched  lute, 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 

Ill-salisfy'd  keen  Nature's  clam'rous  call, 
Stretch'd  on  his  straw  belays  himself  to  sleep, 

While  thro'  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall, 
Chill  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap!" 

The  strain  of  sentiment  which  runs 
through  the  poem  is  noble,  though  the 
execution  is  unequal,  and  the  versification 
is  defective. 

Among  the  serious  poems  of  Barns,  The 
Cotter' s  Saturday  Night  is  perhaps  entitled 
to  the  first  rank.  The  Farmer's  Ingle  of 
Fergusson  evidently  suggested  the  plan  of 
this  poem,  as  has  been  already  mentioned ; 
but  after  the  plan  was  formed,  Burns  trust- 
ed entirely  to  his  own  powers  for  the  ex- 
ecution. Fergusson's  poem  is  certainly 
very  beautiful.  It  has  all  the  charms 
which  depend  on  rural  characters  and 
manners  happily  portrayed,  and  exhibited 
under  circumstances  highly  grateful  to  the 
imagination.  The  Farmer's  Ingle  begins 
with  describing  the  return  of  evening. 
The  toils  of  the  day  are  over,  and  the  far- 
mer retires  to  his  comfortable  fire-side. 
The  reception  which  he  and  his  men-ser- 
vants receive  from  the  careful  housewife, 
is  pleasingly  described.  After  their  sup- 
per is  over,  they  begin  to  talk  on  the  ru- 
ral events  of  the  day. 

"Bout  kirk  and  market  eke  their  tales  jrae  on, 
How  Jock  wooed  Jenny  here  to  be  his  bride ; 

And  there  how  Marion  for  a  bastard  son, 
Upo'  the  cutty-stool  was  forced  to  ride, 

The  waefu'  scauld  o'  our  Mess  John  to  bide." 

The  "  Guidame"  is  next  introduced  as 
forming  a  circle  round  the  fire,  in  the 
midst  of  her  grand-children,  and  while 
she  spins  from  the  rock,  and  the  spindle 
plays  on  her  "  russet  lap,"  she  is  relating 
to  the  young  ones  tales  of  witches  and 
ghosts.     The  poet  exclaims : 

"  O  mock  na  this,  my  friends  !  but  rather  mourn, 
Ye  in  life's  brawest  spring  wi'  reason  clear, 

Wi'  eildour  idle  fancies  a'  return. 
And  dim  our  dolefu'  days  wi'  baimly  fear; 

The  mind's  aye  cradled  when  the  grave  is  near." 

In  the  mean  time  the  farmer,  wearied 
with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  stretches 
himself  at  length  on  the  Settle,  a  sort  of 
rustic  couch,  which  extends  on  one  side 
of  the  fire,  and  the  cat  and  house-dog 
leap  upon  it  to  receive  his  caresses.  Here 
T 


resting  at  his  ease,  he  gives  his  directions 
to  his  men-servants  for  the  succeeding 
day.  The  housewife  follows  his  exam- 
ple, and  gives  her  orders  to  the  maidens. 
By  degrees  the  oil  in  the  cruise  begins  to 
fail ;  the  fire  runs  low  ;  sleep  steals  on  this 
rustic  group  ;  and  they  move  off  to  enjoy 
their  peaceful  slumbers.  The  poet  con- 
cludes by  bestowing  his  blessings  oh  the 
"  husbandman  and  all  his  tribe." 

This  is  an  original  and  truly  interesting 
pastoral.  It  possesses  every  thing  re- 
quired in  this  species  of  composition.  We 
might  have  perhaps  said  every  thing  that 
it  admits,  had'  not  Burns  written  his  Cot- 
ter's Saturday  Night. 

The  cottager  returning  from  his  la- 
bours, has  no  servants  to  accompany  him, 
to  partake  of  his  fare,  or  to  receive  his 
instructions.  The  circle  which  he  joins, 
is  composed  of  his  wife  and  children  only  ; 
and  if  it  admits  of  less  variety,  it  affords 
an  opportunity  for  representing  scenes  that 
more  strongly  interest  the  affections.  The 
younger  children  running  to  meet  him, 
and  clambering  round  his  knee  ;  the  elder, 
returning  from  their  weekly  labours  with 
the  neighbouring  farmers,  dutifully  de- 
positing their  little  gains  with  their  pa- 
rents, and  receiving  their  father's  blessing 
and  instructions :  the  incidents  of  the 
courtship  of  Jenny,  their  eldest  daughter, 
"  woman  grown ;"  are  circumstances  of 
the  most  interesting  kind,  which  are  most 
happily  delineated  ;  and  after  their  frugal 
supper,  the  representation  of  these  hum- 
ble cottagers  forming  a  wider  circle 
round  their  hearth,  and  uniting  in  the 
worship  of  God,  is  a  picture  the  most 
deeply  affecting  of  any  which  the  rural 
muse  has  ever  presented  to  the  view. 
Burns  was  admirubly  adapted  to  this  de- 
lineation. Like  all  men  of  genius,  he 
was  of  the  temperament  of  devotion,  and 
the  powers  of  memory  co-operated  in 
this  instance  with  the  sensibility  of  his 
heart,  and  the  fervour  of  his  imagina- 
tion.* The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  is 
tender  and  moral,  if  is  solemn  and  devo- 
tional, and  rises  at  length  into  a  strain  of 
grandeur  and  sublimity,  which  modern 
poetry  has  not  surpassed.  The  noble 
sentiments  of  patriotism  with  which  it 
concludes,  correspond  wTith  the  rest  of 
the  poem.  In  no  age  or  country  have 
the  pastoral  muses  breathed  such  ele- 
vated accents,  if  the  Messiah  of  Pope  be 

*  The  reader  will  recollect  that  the  Cotter  was  Burns's 
father.    See  p.  24. 


oM 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


excepted,  which  is  indeed  a  pastoral  in 
form  only.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that 
Burns  did  not  employ  his  genius  on  other 
subjects  of  the  same  nature,  which  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  Scottish  pea- 
santry would  have  amply  supplied.  Such 
poetry  is  not  to  be  estimated  by  the  de- 
gree of  pleasure  which  it  bestows  ;  it 
sinks  deeply  into  the  heart,  and  is  calcu- 
lated far  beyond  any  other  human  means, 
for  giving  permanence  to  the  scenes  and 
characters  it  so  exquisitely  describes.* 

Before  we  conclude,  it  will  be  proper  to 
offer  a  few  observations  on  the  lyric  pro- 
ductions of  Burns.  His  compositions  of 
this  kind  are  chiefly  songs,  generally  in 
the  Scottish  dialect,  and  always  after  the 
model  of  the  Scottish  songs,  on  the  gene- 
ral character  and  moral  influence  of  which, 
some  observations  have  already  been  of- 
fered, f  We  may  hazard  a  few  more  par- 
ticular remarks. 

Of  the  historic  or  heroic  ballads  of 
Scotland,  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak. 
Burns  has  nowhere  imitated  them,  a  cir- 
cumstance to  be  regretted,  since  in  this 
species  of  composition,  from  its  admitting 
the  more  terrible  as  well  as  the  softer 
graces  of  poetry,  he  was  eminently  quali- 
fied to  have  excelled.  The  Scottish  songs 
which  served  as  a  model  to  Burns,  are  al- 
most without  exception  pastoral,  or  rather 
rural.  Such  of  them  as  are  comic,  fre- 
quently treat  of  a  rustic  courtship  or  a 
country  wedding  ;  or  they  describe  the 
differences  (if  opinion  which  arise  in  mar- 
ried life.  Burns  has  imitated  this  species, 
and  surpassed  his  models.  The  song,  be- 
ginning, "  Husband,  husband,  cease  your 
strife,"}  may  be  cited  in  support  of  this 
rvation.d  His  other  comic  songs  are 
of  equal  merit.  In  the  rural  songs  of 
Scotland,  whether  humorous  or  tender, 
the  sentiments  arc  given  to  particular 
characters,  and  very  generally,  the  inci- 
dents are  referred  to  particular  scenery. 
This  last  circumstance  may  be  consider- 

*  See  Appendix,  No.  II.  Note  D. 

fScep.  0. 

t  See  Poems,  p.  95. 

$The  dialogues  between  husbands  and  their  wives, 

which   form  the  sul s  of  the  Scottish  songs,  are 

almost  all  ludl  itirical,  and  in  these  contests 

the  Indv  is  generally  victorious.    From  the  colli  i  tion 
of  Mr.  Plnkerton  we  find  that  the  comic  muse  of  Scot- 
land delighted  in  such  representations  from  very  early 
in  tier  rude  dramatic  cfl'oits,  as  well  as  in  lier 
rustic  songs. 


ed    as  the  distinguished  feature  of  the 
Scottish  songs,  and  on  i.t  a  considerable 
part  of  their  attraction  depends.     On  all 
occasions  the  sentiments,  of  whatever  na- 
ture, are  delivered  in  the  character  of  the 
person  principally  interested.     If  love  be 
described,  it  is  not  as  it  is  observed,  but 
as  it  is  felt ;  and  the  passion  is  delineated 
under  a  particular  aspert.     Neither  is  it 
the  fiercer  impulses  of  desire  that  are  ex- 
pressed, as  in  the  celebrated  ode  of  Sappho, 
the  model  of  so  many  modern  songs,  but 
those  gentler  emotions  of  tenderness  and 
affection,  which    do  not  entirely  absorb 
the  lover;  but  permit  him  to  associate  his 
emotions  with  the  charms  of  external  na- 
ture, and  breathe  the  accents  of  purity 
and  innocence,  as  well  as  of  love.     In 
these  respects  the  love-songs  of  Scotland 
are   honourably    distinguished   from  the 
most   admired   classical   compositions  of 
the  same  kind  :   and  by  such  associations, 
a  variety,  as  well  as  liveliness,  is  given  to 
the  representation  of  this  passion,  which 
are  not  to  be  found  in  the  poetry  of  Greece 
or  Rome,  or  perhaps  of  any  other  nation. 
Many  of  the  love-songs  of  Scotland  de- 
scribe scenes  of  rural  courtship  ;   many 
may  be  considered   as   invocations   from 
lovers  to  their  mistresses.     On  such  oc- 
casions a  degree  of  interest  and  reality  is 
given  to  the  sentiments,  by  the  spot  des- 
tined  to   these   happy   interviews   being 
part  icularized.     The  lovers  perhaps  meet 
at  the  Bush  aboon  Traquair,  or  on  the 
Banks  of  Eltrick ;  the  nymphs  are  invoked 
to  wander  among  the  wilds  of  Roslin,  or 
the  woods  of  Inrmntnj.     Nor  is  the  spot 
merely  pointed  out  ;  t  he  scenery  is  often 
described  as  well  as  the  characters,  so  as 
to  present  a  complete  picture  to  the  fan- 
cy.*    Thus  the  maxim  of  Horace  ut  pic- 

*  One  or  two  examples  may  illustrate  this  observa- 
tion. A  Scottish  song,  written  about  a  hundred  years 
ago,  begins  thus : 

"  On  Kttrirk  banks,  on  a  summer's  night, 

At  gloaming,  when  the  sheep  drove  name, 
I  met  my  lassie,  brawand  tight, 

Come  wading  barefoot  a'  her  lane; 
My  heart  grew  light,  I  ran,  1  flang 

My  arms  about  her  lily  neck, 
And  kiss'd  and  clasped  there  fu'  lang, 

My  words  they  were  na  mony  feck."* 

The  lover,  who  is  a  Highlander,  goes  on  to  relate  the 
language  he  employed  with  his  Lowland  maid  to  win 
her  heart,  and  to  persuade  her  to  fly  with  him  to  the 
Highland  hills,  there  to  share  ins  fortune.  The  senti- 
ments are  in  themselves  beautiful.  Hut  we  feel  them 
with  double  force,  while  wc  conceive  that  they  were 

*  Money  feck,  not  very  many. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


85 


tura  poesis,  is  faithfully  observed  by  these 
rustic  bards,  who  are  guided  by  the  Bame 
impulse  of  nature  and  sensibility  which 
influenced  the  father  of  epic  poetry,  on 
whose  example  the  precept  of  the  Roman 
poet  was  perhaps  founded.  By  this 
means  tin'  imagination  is  employed  to  in- 
terest the  feelings.  When  we  do  not 
conceive  distinctly  we  do  not  simpathyze 
deeply  in  any  human  affection  ;  and  we 
conceive  nothing  in  the  abstract.  Ab- 
straction, so  useful  in  morals,  and  so  es- 
sential in  science,  must  be  abandoned 
when  the  heart  is  to  be  subdued  by  the 
powers  of  poetry  or  of  eloquence.  The 
bards  of  a  ruder  condition  of  society  paint 
individual  objects  ;  and  hence,  among 
other  causes,,  the  easy  access  they  obtain 
to  the  heart.  Generalization  is  the  vice 
of  poets  whose  learning  overpowers  their 
genius  ;  of  poets  of  a  refined  and  scien- 
tific age. 

The  dramatic  style  which  prevails  so 
much  in  the  Scottish  songs,  while  it  con- 
tributes greatly  to  the  interest  they  ex- 
cite, also  shows  that  they  have  originated 
among  a  people  in  the  earlier  stages  of 
society.  Where  this  form  of  composition 
appears  in  songs  of  a  modern  date,  it  in- 
dicates that  they  have  been  written  after 
the  ancient  model.* 

address-ed  by  a  lover  to  his  mistress,  whom  he  met  all 
done,  on  a  summer's  evening,  by  the  banks  of  a  beau- 
tiful stream,  which  some  of  us  have  actually  seen,  and 
which  all  of  us  can  paint  to  our  imagination.  Let  us 
take  another  example.  It  is  now  a  nymph  that  speaks. 
Hear  how  she  expresses  herself — 

"  How  blythe  each  morn  was  T  to  see 

My  swain  come  o'er  the  hill ! 
He  skipt  the  burn,  and  flew  to  me, 

I  met  him  with  guid  will." 

Here  is  another  picture  drawn  by  the  pencil  of  Na- 
ture. We  see  a  shepherdess  standing  by  the  side  of  a 
brook,  watching  her  lover  as  he  descends  the  opposite 
hill.  He  bounds  lightly  along ;  he  approaches  nearer 
and  nearer;  he  leaps  the  brook,  and  flies  into  her 
arms.  In  the  recollection  of  these  circumstances,  the 
surrounding  scenery  becomes  endeared  to  the  fair 
mourner,  and  she  bursts  into  the  following  excla- 
mation : 

"  O  the  broom,  the  bonnie,  bonnie  broom, 
The  broom  of  the  Cowden-Knowes! 

I  wish  I  were  with  my  dear  swain, 
With  his  pipe  and  my  ewes." 

Thus  the  individual  spot  of  this  happy  interview  is 
pointed  out,  and  the  picture  is  completed. 

*  That  the  dramatic  form  of  writing  characterizes 
productions  of  an  early,  or,  what  amounts  to  the 


The  Scottish  songs  are  of  a  very  une- 
qual poetical  merit,  and  this  inequality 
often  extends  to  the  different  parts  oft  lie 
same  song.  Those  that  arc  humorous, 
or  characteristic  of  manners,  have  in  ge- 
neral the  merit  of  copying  nature  ;  those 
that  are  serious,  are  tender,  and  often 
sweetly  interesting,  but  seldom  exhibit 
high  powers  of  imagination,  which  indeed 
do  not  easily  find  a  place  in  this  species 
of  composition.  The  alliance  of  the 
words  of  the  Scottish  songs  with  the  mu- 
sic, has  in  some  instances  given  to  the 
former  a  popularity,  which  otherwise  they 
would  not  have  obtained. 

The  association  of  the  words  and  the 
music  of  these  songs,  with  the  more  beau- 
tiful parts  of  the  scenery  of  Scotland,  con- 
tributes to  the  same  effect.  It  has  given 
them  not  merely  popularity,  but  perma- 
nence ;  it  has  imparted  to  the  works  of 
man  some  portion  of  the  durability  of  the 
works  of  nature.  If,  from  our  imperfect  ex- 
perience of  the  past,  we  may  judge  with 
any  confidence  respecting  the  future, 
songs  of  this  description  are  of  all  others 
least  likely  to  die.  In  the  changes  of  lan- 
same  thing,  of  a  rude  stage  of  society,  may  be  illus- 
trated by  a  reference  to  the  most  ancient  compositions 
that  we  know  of,  the  Hebrew  scriptures,  and  the  wri- 
tings of  Homer.  The  form  of  dialogue  is  adopted  in  the 
old  Scottish  ballads  even  in  narration,  whenever  the 
situations  described  become  interesting.  This  some- 
times produces  a  very  striking  effect,  of  which  an  in- 
stance may  be  given  from  the  ballad  of  Edom  o'  Gordon 
a  composition  apparently  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  story  of  the  ballad  is  shortly  this. — The  castle  of 
Rhodes,  in  the  absence  of  its  lord,  is  attacked  by  the 
robber  Edom  o'  Gordon.  The  lady  stands  on  her  de- 
fence, beats  off"  the  assailants,  and  wounds  Gordon, 
who,  in  his  rage,  orders  the  castle  to  be  set  on  fire 
That  his  orders  are  carried  into  effect,  we  learn  from 
the  expostulation  of  the  lady,  who  is  represented  as 
standing  on  the  battlements,  and  remonstrating  on  this 
barbarity.     She  is  interrupted — 

"  O  then  bespake  her  little  son, 

Sate  on  his  nourice  knee  ; 
Says,  '  mither  dear,  gi'  owre  this  house, 

For  the  reek  it  smithers  me.' 
'  I  wad  gie  a'  my  gowd,  my  childc, 

Sae  wad  I  a'  my  fee, 
For  ae  blast  o'  the  weslin  wind, 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee."  ' 

The  circumstantiality  of  the  Scottish  love-songs,  and 
the  dramatic  form  which  prevails  so  generally  in  them, 
probably  arises  from  their  being  the  descendants  and 
successors  of  the  ancient  ballads.  In  the  beautiful 
modern  song  of  Mary  of  Castle-Cary,  the  dramatic  form 
has  a  very  happy  effect.  The  same  may  be  said  of 
Donald  and  Flora,  and  Come  under  my  plaidie,  by  the 
same  author,  Mr.  Macniel. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


guage  they  may  no  doubt  suffer  change ; 
but  the  associated  strain  of  sentiment  and 
of  music  will  perhaps  survive,  while  the 
clear  stream  sweeps  down  the  vale  of 
Yarrow,  or  the  yellow  broom  waves  on 
Cowden-Knowes. 

The  first  attempts  of  Burns  in  song- 
writing  were  not  very  successful.  His 
habitual  inattention  to  the  exactness  of 
rhymes,  and  to  the  harmony  of  numbers, 
arising  probably  from  the  models  on  which 
his  versification  was  formed,  were  faults 
likely  to  appear  to  more  disadvantage  in 
this  species  of  composition,  than  in  any 
other  ;  and  we  may  also  remark,  that  the 
strength  of  his  imagination,  and  the  ex- 
uberance of  his  sensibility,  wore  with  dif- 
ficulty restrained  within  the  limits  of  gen- 
tleness, delicacy,  and  tenderness,  which 
seemed  to  be  assigned  to  the  love-songs 
of  his  nation.  Burns  was  better  adapted 
by  nature  for  following,  in  such  composi- 
tions, the  model  of  the  Grecian,  than  that 
of  the  Scottish  muse.  By  study  and  prac- 
tice he  however  surmounted  all  these  ob- 
stacles. In  his  earlier  songs,  there  is 
some  ruggedness  ;  but  this  gradually  dis- 
appears in  his  successive  efforts;  and  some 
of  his  later  compositions  of  this  kind  may 
be  compared,  in  polished  delicacy,  with 
the  finest  songs  in  our  language,  while  in 
the  eloquence  of  sensibility  they  surpass 
them  all. 

The  songs  of  Burns,  like  the  models  he 
followed  and  excelled,  are  often  dramatic, 
and  for  the  greater  part  amatory  ;  and  the 
beauties  of  rural  nature  are  every  where 
associated  with  the  passions  and  emotions 
of  the  mind.  Disdaining  to  copy  the  works 
of  others,  he  has  not,  like  some  poets  of 
great  name,  admitted  into  his  descriptions 
exotic  imagery.  The  landscapes  he  has 
painted,  and  the  objects  with  which  they 
are  embellished,  arc,  in  every  single  in- 
stance, surh  as  are  to  be  found  in  his  own 
country.  In  a  mountainous  region,  es- 
pecially  when  it  is  comparatively  rude 
and  naked,  and  the  most  beautiful  scene- 
ry will  always  be  found  in  the  valleys, 
and  on  the  banks  of  the  wooded  streams. 
Such  scenery  [a  peculiarly  interesting  at 
the  close  of  a  summer-day.  As  we  ad- 
vance northwards,  the  number  of  the  days 
of  summer,  indeed,  diminishes  ;  hut  from 
this  cause,  as  well  as  from  t  he  mildness  of 
the  temperature,  the  attraction  of  the  sea- 
son increases,  and  the  summer-night  be- 
i  st ill  more  beautiful.  The  greater 
obliuuity  of  the  sun's  path  on  the  ecliptic 


prolongs  the  grateful  season  of  twilight 
to  the  midnight  hours:  and  the  shades 
of  the  evening  seem  to  mingle  with  the 
morning's  dawn.  The  rural  poets  of 
Scotland,  as  may  be  expected,  associate 
in  their  songs  the  expressions  of  passion, 
with  the  most  beautiful  of  their  scenery, 
in  the  fairest  season  of  the  year,  and  ge- 
nerally in  those  hours  of  the  evening  when 
the  beauties  of  nature  are  most  interest- 
ing.* 

To  all  these  adventitious  circumstan- 
ces, on  which  so  much  of  the  effect  of  po- 
etry depends,  groat  attention  is  paid  by 
Burns.  There  is  scarcely  a  single  song 
of  his,  in  which  particular  scenery  is  not 
desoribed,  or  allusions  made  to  natural 
objects,  remarkable  for  beauty  or  inter- 
est: and  though  his  descriptions, are  not 
so  full  as  are  sometimes  met  with  in  the 
older  Scottish  songs,  they  are  in  the  high- 
est degree  appropriate  and  interesting. 
Instances  in  proof  of  this  might  be  quoted 
from  the  Lea.  Rig,  Highland  Mary,  The 
Soldier's  Return,  Logan  Water;  from 
that  beautiful  pastoral  Bonny  Jean,  and  a 
great  number  of  others.  Occasionally 
the  force  of  his  genius  carries  him  beyond 
the  usual  boundaries  of  Scottish  song, 
and  the  natural  objects  introduced  have 
more  of  the  character  of  sublimity.  An 
instance  of  this   kind  is  noticed  by  Mr. 

*  A  lady,  of  whose  genius  the  editor  entertains  high 
admiration  (Mrs.  Barbauld,)  has  fallen  into  an  error 
in  this  respect.  In  tier  prefatory  address  to  the  works 
of  Collins,  speaking  of  the  natural  objects  that  maybe 
employed  to  give  interest  to  the  descriptions  of  passion, 
she  observes,  "they  present  an  inexhaustible  variety, 
from  the  Song  of  Solomon,  breathing  of  cassia,  myrrh, 
and  cinnamon,  to  the  Gentle  Shepherd  of  Ramsay, 
whose  damsels  carry  their  milking-pails  through  the 
frosts  and  snows  of  their  less  genial,  but  not  less  pasto- 
ral country."  The  damsels  of  Ramsay  do  not  walk  in 
the  midst  of  frost  and  snow.  Almost  all  the  scenes  of 
the  Gentle  Shepherd  are  laid  in  the  open  air,  amidst 
beautiful  natural  objects,  and  at  the  most  genial  season 
of  the  year.  Ramsay  introduces  all  his  acts  with  a 
prefatory  description  to  assure  us  of  this.  The  fault  of 
the  climate  of  Britain  is  not,  that  it  does  not  afford  us 
the  beauties  of  summer,  but  that  the  season  of  such 
beauties  is  comparatively  short,  and  even  uncertain 
There  are  days  and  nights,  even  in  the  northern  divi- 
sion of  the  island,  which  equal,  or  perhaps  surpass, 
what  are  to  be  found  in  the  latitude  of  Sicily,  or  of 
Grew  e.  Buchanan,  when  he  wrote  his  exquisite  Ode 
to  May,  felt  the  charm  as  well  as  the  transientness  of 
these  happy  days: 

Salve  fugacis  gloria  seculi, 
Salve  securida  digna  dies  nota 
Salve  vetust  e  vita  imago, 
Et  specimen  venientis  M\\. 


Syme,*  and  many  others  might  be  ad- 
duced : 

"  Had  T  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shorn, 
Where  the  winds  howl  i"  the  waves'  dashing  roar: 

There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 

There  sock  my  last  repose, 

Til]  grief  my  eyes  should  close 
Ne'er  to  wake  more." 

Tn  one  song,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid 
in  a  winter-night,  the  "  wan  moon"  is  de- 
scribed as  "  setting  behind  the  white 
waves;"  in  another,  the  "storms"  are 
apostrophized,  and  commanded  to  "  rest 
in  the  cave  of  their  slumbers,"  on  several 
occasions  the  genius  of  Burns  loses  sight 
entirely  of  his  archetypes,  and  rises  into 
a  strain  of  uniform  sublimity.  Instances 
of  this  kind  appear  in  Libertie,  a  Vision ; 
and  in  his  two  war-songs,  Bruce  to  his 
Troops,  and  the  Song  of  Death.  These 
last  are  of  a  description  of  which  we  have 
no  other  in  our  language.  The  martial 
songs  of  our  nation  are  not  military,  but 
naval.  If  we  were  to  seek  a  comparison 
of  these  songs  of  Burns  with  others  of  a 
similar  nature,  we  must  have  recourse  to 
the  poetry  of  ancient  Greece,  or  of  mo- 
dern Gaul. 


Burns  has  made  an  important  addition 
to  the  songs  of  Scotland.  In  his  compo- 
sitions, the  poetry  equals  and  sometimes 
surpasses  the  music.  He  has  enlarged 
the  poetical  scenery  of  his  country.  Ma- 
ny of  her  rivers  and  mountains,  formerly 
unknown  to  the  muse,  are  now  conse- 
crated by  his  immortal  verse.  The  Doon, 
the  Lngar,  the  Ayr,  the  Nith,  and  the 
Cluden,  will  in  future,  like  the  Yarrow, 
the  Tweed,  and  the  Tay,  be  considered 
as  classic  streams,  and  their  borders  will 
be  trodden  with  new  and  superior  emo- 
tions. 

The  greater  part  of  the  songs  of  Burns 
were  written  after  he  removed  into  the 
county  of  Dumfries.  Influenced,  perhaps, 
by  habits  formed  in  early  life,  he  usually 
composed  while  walking  in  the  open  air. 
When  engaged  in  writing  these  songs,  his 
favourite  walks  were  on  the  banks  of  the 
Nith,  or  of  the  Cluden,  particularly  near 
the  ruins  of  Lincluden  Abbey  ;  and  this 
beautiful  scenery  he  has  very  happily  de- 
scribed under  various  aspects,  as  it  ap- 
pears during  the  softness  and  serenity  of 
evening,  and  during  the  stillness  and  so- 
lemnity of  the  moon-light  night. f 

*  Sec  pp.  55,  5G. 
tSee  Poems,  p.  96 ;  &  the  Vision,  p.  117. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS.  87 

There  is  no  species  of  poetry,  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  drama  not  excepted,  so 
much  calculated  to  influence  the'  morals, 
as  well  as  the  happiness  of  a  people,  as 
those  popular  verses  which  are  associated 
with  national  airs ;  and  which  being  learn- 
ed in  the  years  of  infancy,  make  a  deep 
impression  on  the  heart  before  the  evolu 
tion  of  the  powers  of  the  understanding 
The  compositions  of  Burns  of  this  kind, 
now  presented  in  a  collected  form  to  the 
world,  make  a  most  important  addition 
to  the  popular  songs  of  his  nation.  Like 
all  his  other  writings,  they  exhibit  inde- 
pendence of  sentiment ;  they  are  peculi- 
arly calculated  to  increase  those  ties  which 
bind  generous  hearts  to  their  native  soil, 
and  to  the  domestic  circle  of  their  infan- 
cy ;  and  to  cherish  those  sensibilities 
which,  under  due  restriction,  form  the 
purest  happiness  of  our  nature.  If  in  his 
unguarded  moments  he  composed  some 
songs  on  which  this  praise  cannot  be  be- 
stowed, let  us  hope  that  they  will  speedi- 
ly be  forgotten.  In  several  instances, 
where  Scottish  airs  were  allied  to  words 
objectionable  in  point  of  delicacy,  Burns 
has  substituted  others  of  a  purer  charac- 
ter. On  such  occasions,  without  chang- 
ing the  subject,  he  has  changed  the  sen- 
timents. A  proof  of  this  may  be  seen  in 
the  air  of  John  Anderson  my  Joe,  which 
is  now  united  to  words  that  breathe  a 
strain  of  conjugal  tenderness,  that  is  as 
highly  moral  as  it  is  exquisitely  affecting. 


Few  circumstances  could  afford  a  more 
striking  proof  of  the  strength  of  Burns's 
genius,  than  the  general  circulation  of  his 
poems  in  England,  notwithstanding  the 
dialect  in  which  the  greater  part  are  writ- 
ten, and  which  might  be  supposed  to  ren- 
der them  here  uncouth  or  obscure.  In 
some  instances  he  has  used  this  dialect 
on  subjects  of  a  sublime  nature;  but  in 
general  he  confines  it  to  sentiments  or 
descriptions  of  a  tender  or  humorous  kind  ; 
and  where  he  rises  into  elevation  of 
thought,  he  assumes  a  purer  English  style. 
The  singular  faculty  he  possessed  of  ming- 
ling in  the  same  poem,  humorous  senti- 
ments and  descriptions,  with  imagery  of 
a  sublime  and  terrific  nature,  enabled  him 
to  use  this  variety  of  dialect  on  some  oc- 
casions with  striking  effect.  His  poem  of 
Tarn  o'Shanter  affords  an  instance  of  this. 
There  he  passes  from  a  scene  of  the  low- 
est humour,  to  situations  of  the  most  aw- 
ful and  terrible  kind.  He  is  a  musician 
that  runs  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest 
of  his  keys ;  and  the  use  of  the  Scottish 


m 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


dialect  enables  him  to  add  two  additional 
notes  to  the  bottom  of  bis  scale. 

Great  efforts  have  been  made  by  the 
inhabitants  of  Scotland,  of  the  superior 
ranks,  to  approximate  in  tbeir  speech  to 
the  pure  English  standard  ;  and  this  has 
made  it  difficult  to  write  in  the  Scottish 
dialect,  without  exciting  in  them  some 
feelings  of  disgust,  which  in  England  are 
scarcely  felt.  An  Englishman  who  un- 
derstands the  meaning  of  the  Scottish 
words,  is  not  offended,  nay,  on  certain 
subjects,  he  is  perhaps,  pleased  with  the 
rustic  dialect,  as  he  may  be  with  the  Do- 
ric Greek  of  Theocritus. 

But  a  Scotchman  inhabiting  his  own 
country,  if  a  man  of  education,  and  more 
especially  if  a  literary  character,  has  ba- 
nished such  words  from  his  writings,  and 
has  attempted  to  banish  them  from  his 
speech  :  and  being  accustomed  to  hear 
them  from  the  vulgar,  daily,  does  not 
easily  admit  of  their  use  in  poetry,  which 
requires  a  style  elevated  and  ornamental. 
A  dislike  of  this  kind  is,  however,  acci- 
dental, not  natural.  It  is  one  of  the  spe- 
cies of  disgust  which  we  feel  at  seeing  a 
female  of  high  birth  in  the  dress  of  a  rus- 
tic ;  which,  if  she  be  really  young  and 
beautiful,  a  little  habit  will  enable  us  to 
overcome.  A  lady  who  assumes  such  a 
dress,  puts  her  beauty,  indeed,  to  a  se- 
verer trial.  She  rejects — she,  indeed,  op- 
poses the  influence  of  fashion  :  she  possi- 
bly abandons  the  grace  of  elegant  and 
flowing  drapery  ;  but  her  native  charms 
remain  the  more  striking,  perhaps,  be- 
cause the  less  adorned :  and  to  these  she 
trusts  for  fixing  her  empire  on  those  af- 
fections  over  which  fashion  has  no  sway. 
If  she  succeeds,  a  new  association  arises. 
Tie'  dress  of  the  hea  lit  iful  rustic  becomes 

itself  beautiful,  and  establishes  a  new 
fashion  for  the  young  and  the  gay.  And 
when  in  after  ages,  the  contemplative  ob- 
server shall  view  her  picture  in  the  gal- 
lery that  contains  the  portraits  of  the 
beauties  of  successive  centuries,  each  in 
the  dress  of  her  respective  day,  her  dra- 
pery  will  not  deviate,  more  than  that  of 

her  rivals,  from  the  standard  of  his  taste, 

ami  he  will  give  the  palm  to  her  who  ex- 
cels in  the  lineaments  of  nature. 

Bums  wrote  pr6fe  edly  for  the  pna- 
eantry  of  his  country,  ami  by  them  their 
native  dialect  is  universally  relished.  To 
a  numerous  class  of  the  natives  of  Scot- 
land of  another  description,  it  may  also  be 


considered  as  attractive  in  a  different 
point  of  view.  Estranged  from  their  na- 
tive soil,  anil  spread  over  foreign  lands, 
the  idiom  of  their  country  unites  with  the 
sentiments  and  the  descriptions  on  which 
it  is  employed,  to  recal  to  their  minds  the 
interest  ing  scenes  of  infancy  and  youth — 
to  awaken  many  pleasing,  man\  tender 
recollections.  Literary  men,  residing  at 
Edinburgh  or  Aberdeen,  cannot  judge  on 
this  point  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand of  their  expatriated  countrymen.* 

To  the  use  of  the  Scottish  dialect  in 
one  species  of  poetry,  the  composition  of 
songs,  the  taste  of  the  public  has  been  for 
some  time  reconciled.  The  dialect  in 
question  excels,  as  has  already  been  ob- 
served, in  the  copiousness  and  exactness 
of  its  terms  for  natural  objects  ;  and  in 
pastoral  or  rural  songs,  it  gives  a  Doric 
simplicity,  which  is  very  generally  ap- 
proved. Neither  does  the  regret  seem 
well  founded  which  some  persons  of  taste 
have  expressed,  that  Burns  used  this 
dialect  in  so  many  other  of  his  compo- 
sitions. His  declared  purpose  was  to 
paint  t  he  manners  of  rustic  life  among  his 
"  humble  compeers,"  and  it  is  not.  easy 
to  conceive,  that  this  could  have  been 
done  with  equal  humour  and  effect,  if  he 
had  not  adopted  their  idiom.  There  are 
some,  indeed,  who  will  think  the  subject 
too  low  for  poet  rv.  Persons  of  t  his  sick- 
ly taste  will  find  t  heir  delicacies  consulted 
in  many  a  polite  and  learned  author  :  let 
thnii  not  seek  for  gratification  in  the 
rough  and  vigorous  lines,  in  the  unbridled 
humour,  or  in  the  overpowering  sensi- 
bility of  this  bard  of  nature. 

To  determine  the  comparative  merit 
of  Burns  would  be  no  easy  task.  Many 
persons,  afterwards  distinguished  in  lite- 
rature, have  been  born  in  as  humble  a 
sit  nation  of  life  ;  lint  it  would  be  diffi 
to  find  any  other  who,  while  earning  his 
subsistence  by  daily    labour,    has   written 

*  These  observation  d  by  some  remarks  of 

respectable  corres] Bents  of  the  description  alluded  to. 

This  calculation  of  the  number  of  Scotchmen  living  out 
"i  Si  otland  is  not  altogether  arbitrary,  and  it  is  proba- 
bly below  the  truth,  li  is,  in  some  decree,  founded  on 
the  proportion  between  the  number  of  the  sexes  in  Si  at 
land,  as  it  appears  from  the  invaluable  Statistics  of  Sir 
John  Sinclair.  For  Scotchmen  of  this  description,  more 
particularly,  Burns  Bei  ma  to  ba\  e  vt  rltten  his  song,  be- 
ginning, Theirgrovls  o'  sweet  myrtle,  a  beautiful  strain, 
which,  it  may  be  confidently  predicted,  will  lie  sung 
with  equal  or  superior  interest  on  the  hanks  of  the 
if  the  Mississippi,  as  on  those  of  the  Tay  or 
I  the  Tweed. 


THE  LIFE  OF  BURNS. 


89 


vcTses  which  have  attracted  and  retained 
universal  attention,  and  which  are  likely 
to  give  the  author  a  permanent  and  dis- 
tinguished place  among  t lie  followers  of 
the  muses,  [f  he  is  deficient  in  grace, 
he  is  distinguished  for  ease  as  well  as 
energy  ;  and  these  are  indications  of  the 
higher  order  of  genius.  The  father  of 
epic  poetry  exhibits  one  of  his  heroes  as 
excelling  in  strength,  another  in  swift- 
ness— to  form  his  perfect  warrior,  these 
attributes  are  combined.  Every  species 
of  intellectual  superiority  admits  .perhaps 
of  a  similar  arrangement.  One  writer 
excels  in  force — another  in  ease  ;  he  is 
superior  to  them  both,  in  whom  both 
these  qualities  are  united.  Of  Homer 
himself  it  may  be  said,  that,  like  his  own 
Achilles,  he  surpasses  his  competitors  in 
nobility  as  well  as  strength. 

The  force  of  Burns  lay  in  the  powers 
of  his  understanding,  and  in  the  sensibili- 
ty of  his  heart ;  and  these  will  be  found 
to  infuse  the  living  principle  into  all  the 


works  of  genius  which  seem  destined  to 
immortality.  His  sensibility  had  an  an- 
common  range.  lie  was  alive  to  every 
:  pecies  of  emol  ion.  He  is  one  of  the  few 
poets  that  can  be  mentioned,  who  have 
at  once  excelled  in  humourrin  tenderness, 
and  in  sublimity  ;  a  praise  unknown  to 
the  ancients,  and  which  in  modern  times 
is  only  due  to  Ariosto,  to  Shakspcare,  and 
perhaps  to  Voltaire.  To  compare  the 
writings  of  the  Scottish  peasant  with  the 
works  of  these  giants  in  literature,  might 
appear  presumptuous  ;  yet  it  may  be  as- 
serted that  he  has  displayed  the  foot  of 
Hercules.  How  near  he  might  have  ap- 
proached them  by  proper  culture,  with 
lengthened  years,  and  under  happier  au- 
spices, it  is  not  for  us  to  calculate.  But 
while  we  run  over  the  melancholy  story 
of  his  life,  it  is  impossible  not  to  heave  a 
sigh  at  the  asperity  of  his  fortune  ;  and 
as  we  survey  the  records  of  his  mind,  it 
is  easy  to  see,  that  out  of  such  materials 
have  been  reared  the  fairest  and  the  most 
durable  of  the  monuments  of  genius. 


AIDTX^ 


DR.  CURKIE'G 
EDITION  OF  THE  CORRESPONDENCE. 


Tt  is  impossible  to  dismiss  this  volume* 
of  the  Correspondence  of  our  Bard,  with- 
out some  anxiety  as  to  the  reception  it 
may  meet  with.  The  experiment  we  are 
making  has  not  often  been  tried  ;  perhaps 
on  no  occasion  lias  so  large  a  portion  of 
the  recent  and  unpremeditated  effusions 
of  a  man  of  genius  been  committed  to  the 
press. 

Of  the  following  letters  of  Burns,  a  con- 
siderable number  were  transmitted  for 
publication,  by  the  individuals  to  whom 
they  were  addressed ;  but  very  few  have 
been  printed  entire.  It  will  easily  be  be- 
lieved, that  in  a  series  of  letters  written 
without  the  least  view  to  publication,  va- 
rious passages  were  found  unfit  for  the 
press,  from  different  considerations.  It 
will  also  he  readily  supposed,  that  our  po- 
et, writing  nearly  at  the  same  time,  and 
under  the  same  feelings  to  different  indi- 
viduals, would  sometimes  fall  into  the 
same  train  of  sentiment  and  forms  of  ex- 
pression. To  avoid,  therefore,  the  tedi- 
ousness  of  such  repetitions,  it  has  been 
found  necessary  to  mutilate  many  of  the 
individual  letters,  and  sometimes  to  ex- 
scind parts  hi'  greal  delicacy — the  unbri- 
dled effusions  (if  panegyric  and  regard. 
Rut  though  many  of  the  letters  are  print- 
ed from  originals  furnished  by  the  persons 
to  whom  they  were  addressed,  others  are 
printed  from  first  draughts,  or  sketches, 
found  among  the  papers  of  our  Bard. 
Though  in  general  no  man  committed  his 
thoughts  to  his  correspondents  with  less 
leration  or  effort  than  Burns,  yet  it 
appears  thai  in  some  instances  lie  was 
dissatisfied  with  his  first  essays,  and  wrote 
out  his  communications  in  a  fairer  charac- 
ter, or  perhaps  in  more  studied  language. 
In  the  chaos  of  his  manuscripts,  some  of 
the  original  sketches  were  found;  and  as 

I ches,  though  less  perfect,  are 
fairly  to  he  considered  as  the  offspring  of 
his  mind,  where  they  have  seemed  in  them- 

*  Iir.  Currie's  rdiiion  of  Burns's  Works  «;is  origi- 
nally  published  in  four  volumes,  of  which  the  follow- 
.    ■  I  orrespondence  formed  the  second. 


selves  worthy  of  a  place  in  this  volume, 
we  have  not  hesitated  to  insert  them, 
though  they  may  not  always  correspond 
exactly  with  the  letters  transmitted,which 
have  been  lost  or  withheld. 

Our  author  appears  at  one  time  to  have 
formed  an  intention  of  making  a  collec- 
tion of  his  letters  for  the  amusement  of  a 
friend.  Accordingly  he  copied  an  incon- 
siderable number  of  them  into  a  book, 
which  he  presented  to  Robert  Riddel,  of 
Glenriddel,  Esq.  Among  these  was  the 
account  of  his  life,  addressed  to  Doctor 
Moore,  and  printed  in  the  first  volume.* 
In  copying  from  his  imperfect  sketches, 
(it  does  not  appear  that  he  had  the  letters 
actually  sent  to  his  correspondents  before 
him.)  he  seems  to  have  occasionally  en- 
larged his  observations,  and  altered  his 
expressions.  In  such  instances  his  emen- 
dations have  been  adopted ;  but  in  truth 
there  are  but  five  of  the  letters  thus  se- 
lected by  the  poet,  to  be  found  in  the 
present  volume,  the  rest  being  thought  of 
inferior  merit,  or  otherwise  unlit  for  the 
public  eye. 

In  printing  this  volume,  the  editor  lias 
found  some  corrections  of  grammar  neces- 
sary; but  these  have  been  very  few,  and 
such  as  may  be  supposed  to  occur  in  the 
cureless  effusions,  even  of  literary  charac- 
ters, who  have  not  been  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  their  compositions  to  the  press. 
These  corrections  have  ne\  er  been  ex- 
tended to  any  habitual  modes  of  expres- 
sion of  the  poet,  even  where  his  phrase- 
ology may  seem  to  violate  the  delicacies 
of  taste;    or  the   idiom   of  our  language, 

which  he' wrote  in  general  with  great  ac- 
curacy. Some  difference  will  indeed  be 
found  in  this  respect  in  his  earlier  and  in 

his  later  compositions  ;  and  this  volume 
will  exhibit  the  progress  of  his  style,  as 
well  as  the  history  of  his  mind.  In  the 
fourth  edition,  several  new  letters  were 
introduced,  and  some  of  inferior  impor- 
tance were  omitted. 

*  Occupying  from  page  9  to  page  1G  of  this  Edition. 


GENERAL,  CORRESPONDENCE 


LETTERS,    &C. 


No.  I. 
TO  MR.  JOHN  MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES  INN  BUILDINGS,  LONDON. 
Lochlec,  15th  January,  1783. 

DEAR  SIR, 

As  I  have  an  opportunity  of  sending 
you  a  letter,  without  putting  you  to  that 
expense  which  any  production  of  mine 
would  but  ill  repay,  I  embrace  it  with 
pleasure,  to  tell  you  that  I  have  not  for- 
gotten nor  ever  will  forget,  the  many  ob- 
ligations I  lie  under  to  your  kindness  and 
friendship. 

I  do  not  doubt,  Sir,  but  you  will  wish 
to  know  what  has  been  the  result  of  all 
the  pains  of  an  indulgent  father,  and  a 
masterly  teacher  ;  and  I  wish  I  could 
gratify  your  curiosity  with  such  a  recital 
as  you  would  be  pleased  with  ;  but  that 
is  what  I  am  afraid  will  not  be  the  case. 
I  have,  indeed,  kept  pretty  clear  of  vicious 
habits  ;  and  in  this  respect,  I  hope  my 
conduct  will  not  disgrace  the  education  I 
have  gotten  ;  but  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
I  am  most  miserably  deficient. — One 
would  have  thought  that  bred  as  I  have 
been,  under  a  father  who  has  figured 
pretty  well  as  un  homme  des  affaires,  I 
might  have  been  what  the  world  calls  a 
pushing,  active  fellow  ;  but,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  Sir,  there  is  hardly  any  thing 
more  my  reverse.  I  seem  to  be  one  sent 
into  the  world  to  see,  and  observe  ;  and 
I  very  easily  compound  with  the  knave 


who  tricks  me  of  my  money,  if  there  be 
any  thing  original  about  him  which  shows 
me  human  nature  in  a  different  light  from 
any  thing  I  have  seen  before.  In  short, 
the  joy  of  my  heart  is  to  "study  men, 
their  manners,  and  their  ways  ;"  and  for 
this  darling  object,  I  cheerfully  sacrifice 
every  other  consideration.  I  am  quite 
indolent  about  those  great  concerns  that 
set  the  bustling  busy  sons  of  care  agog  ; 
and  if  I  have  to  answer  for  the  present 
hour,  I  am  very  easy  with  regard  to  any 
thing  further.  Even  the  last  worthy  shift, 
of  the  unfortunate  and  the  wretched  does 
not  much  terrify  me  :  I  know  that  even 
then  my  talent  for  what  country-folks  call 
"  a  sensible  crack,"  when  once  it  is  sanc- 
tified by  a  hoary  head,  would  procure  me 
so  much  esteem,  that  even  then — I  would 
learn  to  be  happy.*  However,  I  am  un- 
der no  apprehensions  about  that  ;  for, 
though  indolent,  yet,  so  far  as  an  extreme- 
ly delicate  constitution  permits,  I  am  not 
lazy  ;  and  in  many  things,  especially  in 
tavern-matters,  I  am  a  strict  economist; 
not  indeed  for  the  sake  of  the  money,  but 
one  of  the  principal  parts  in  my  composi- 
tion is  a  kind  of  pride  of  stomach,  and  I 
scorn  to  fear  the  face  of  any  man  living  ; 
above  every  thing,  I  abhor,  as  hell,  the 
idea  of  sneaking  in  a  corner  to  avoid  a 
dun — possibly  some  pitiful,  sordid  wretch, 
whom  in  my  "heart  I  despise  and  detest- 
'Tis  this,  and  this  alone,  that  endears 
economy  to  me.  In  the  matter  of  books, 
indeed,  I  am  very  profuse.  My  favourite 
authors  arc  of  the  sentimental  kind,  such 

*  Tim  last  shift  alluded  to  here,  must  be  the  condition 
of  an  itinerant  beggar. 


£>2 


LETTERS. 


a?  Shenstone,  particularly  his  Elegies; 
Thomson  ;  .Van  of  Feeling,  a  book  I  prize 
nexl  to  the  Bible;  Manqftke  IjTorld ; 
st,  rru  .  especially  hiB  S<  ntimentaljourney ; 
jiTPherson's  Ossian, Si,c.  These  are  the 
glorious  models  after  which  I  endeavour 
to  form  my  conduct  ;  and  'tis  incongru- 
ous, 'tis  absurd,  to  suppose  thai  the  man 
whose  mind  glows  with  the  sentiments 
lighted  upal  their  sacred flami — theman 
whose  heart  distends  with  benevolence  to 
all  the  human  raci — he  "  who  can  soar 
above  this  little  scene  of  things,"  can  he 
descend  to  mind  the  paltry  concerns  about 
which  the  terrffifilial  race  fret,  and  fume, 
and  vex  themselves?  O  how  the  glorious 
triumph  swells  my  heart  !  I  forget  that  I 
am  a  poor  insignificant  devil,  unnoticed 
mid  unknown,  stalking  up  and  down  fairs 
and  markets,  when  1  happen  to  be  in  them, 
reading  a  page  or  two  of  mankind,  and 
"  catching  the  manners  living  as  they 
rise,"  whilst  the  men  of  business  jostle 
me  on  every  side  as  an  idle  incumbrance 
in  their  way.  But  I  dare  say  I  have  by 
this  time  tired  your  patience;  so  I  shall 
conclude  with  begging  you  to  give  Mrs. 
Murdoch — not  my  compliments,  for  that 
is  a  mere  common-place  story,  but  my 
warmest,  kindest  wishes  for  her  welfare; 
and  accept  of  the  same  for  yourself  from, 
Dear  Sir,  Your's,  &c. 


No.  II. 


The  following  is  taken  from  the  MS.  Prose  pre- 
sented by  our  Bard  to  Mr.  Riddel- 

On  rummaging  over  some  old  papers,  I 
lighted  on  a  MS.  of  my  early  years,  in 
which  1  had  determined  to  writemyselfout, 
us  I  was  placed  by  fortune  among  a  class 
of  men  to  whom  my  ideas  would  have 
been  nonsense.  I  had  meant  that  the 
book  should  have  lain  by  me,  in  the  fond 
hope  that,  some  time  or  other,  even  after 
I  was  no  more,  my  thoughts  would  fall 
into  the  hands  of  somebody  capable  of  ap- 
preciating their  value.     It  sets  off  thus  : 

Observations,  Hints,  Songs,  Scraps  of 
Poetry,  8?c.  by  R.  B. — a  man  who  had 
little  art  in  making  money,  and  still  less 
in  keeping  it;  but  was,  however,  a  man  of 
some  sense,  a  great  deal  of  honesty,  and 
unbounded  good  will  to  every  creature 
rational  and  irrational.  As  he  was  but 
little  indebted  to  scholastic  education, 
and  bred  at  a  plough-tail,  his  performan- 


ces must  be  strongly  tinctured  with  his 
unpolished  rustic  way  of  life  ;  but  as  I 
believe  they  are  really  his  own,  it  maybe 
some  entertainment  to  a  curious  observer 
of  human  nature,  to  see  how  a  ploughman 
thinks  and  feels,  under  the  pressure  of 
love,  ambition,  anxiety,  grief,  with  the 
like  cares  and  passions,  which,  however 
diversified  by  the  modes  and  manners  of 
life,  operate  pretty  much  alike,  I  believe, 
on  all  the  species. 

"  There  are  numbers  in  the  world  who 
do  not  want  sense  to  make  a  figure,  so 
much  as  an  opinion  of  their  own  abilities, 
to  put  them  upon  recording  their  obser- 
vations, and  allowing  them  the  same  im- 
portance, which  they  do  to  those  which 
appear  in  print." — Shenstone. 

"  Pleasing,  when  youth  is  long  expir'd,  to  trace 
The  forms  our  pencil  or  our  pen  designed  ! 

Such  was  our  youthful  air,  and  shape,  and  face, 
Such  the  soft  image  of  our  youthful  mind." — Ibid. 

April,  1783. 
Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said 
against  love,  respecting  the  folly  and 
weakness  it  leads  a  voting  inexperienced 
mind  into;  still  I  think  it  in  a  great  mea- 
sure deserves  the  highest  encomiums 
that  have  been  passed  upon  it.  If  any 
thing  on  earth  deserves  the  name  of  rap- 
ture or  transport,  it  is  the  feelings  of  green 
eighteen,  in  the  company  of  the  mistress 
of  his  heart,  when  she  repays  him  with 
an  equal  return  of  affection. 


August. 
There  is  certainly  some  connexion  be- 
tween love,  and  music,  and  poetry  ;  and 
therefore  I  have  always  thought  a  fine 
touch  of  nature,  that  passage  in  a  modern 
love  composition  : 

"  As  tow'rd  her  cot  he  jogg'd  along, 
Her  name  was  frequent  in  his  song." 

For  my  own  part,  I  never  had  the  least 
thought  or  inclination  of  turning  poet,  till 
I  got  once  heartily  in  love  ;  and  then 
rhyme  and  song  were,  in  a  manner,  the 
spontaneous  language  of  my  heart. 

September. 
I  entirely  agree  with  that  judicious 
philosopher,  Mr.  Smith,  in  his  excellent 
Th<  or ii  of  Moral  Si  ntiments,  1  hat  remorse 
is  the  most  painful  sentiment  that  can  im- 
bitter  the  human  bosom.     Any  ordinary 


LETTERS. 


93 


pitch  of  fortitude  may  bear  up  tolerably 
well  under  those  calamities,  in  the  pro- 
curement of  wliich  we  ourselves  have  had 
no  hand-;  but  when  our  own  follies,  or 
crimes  have  made  us  miserable  and 
wretched,  to  bear  up  with  manly  firm- 
ness, and  at  the  same  time  have  a  proper 
penetential  sense  of  our  misconduct,  is  a 
glorious  effort  of  self  command. 

"Of  all  the  numerous  ills  that  hurt  our  peace, 

That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  mind  with  anguish, 

Beyond  comparison  the  worst  arc  those 

That  to  our  folly  or  our  guilt  we  owe. 

In  every  other  circumstance  the  mind 

Has  this  to  say — '  It  was  no  deed  of  mine;' 

But  when  to  all  the  evils  of  misfortune 

This  sting  is  added — '  Blame  thy  foolish  self;' 

Or  worser  far,  the  pangs  of  keen  remorse  ; 

The  torturing,  gnawing  consciousness  of  guilt — 

Of  guilt,  perhaps,  where  we've  involved  others; 

The  young,  the  innocent,  who  fondly  lov'd  us, 

Niy,  moii',  that  very  love  their  cause  of  ruin! 

O  burning  hell !  in  all  thy  store  of  torments, 

There's  not  a  keener  lash  ! 

Lives  there  a  man  so  hi  in,  who,  while  his  heart 

Feels  all  the  bitter  horrors  of  his  crime, 

Can  reason  down  its  agonizing  throbs; 

And,  after  proper  purpose  of  amendment, 

Can  firmly  force  his  jarring  thoughts  to  peace  1 

O  happy !  happy  I  enviable  man  ! 

O  glorious  magnanimity  of  soul!" 


March,  1784. 
I  have  often  observed,  in  the  course  of 
my  experience  of  human  life,  that  every 
man,  even  the  worst,  has  something'  good 
about  him ;  though  very  often  nothing  else 
than  a  happy  temperament  of  constitution 
inclining  him  to  this  or  that  virtue.  For 
this  reason,  no  man  can  say  in  what  de- 
gree any  other  person,  besides  himself, 
can  be,  with  strict  justice,  called  wicked. 
Let  any  of  the  strictest  character  for  re- 
gularity of  conduct  among  us,  examine 
impartially  how  many  vices  he  has  never 
been  guilty  of,  not  from  any  care  or  vigi- 
lance, but  for  want  of  opportunity,  or 
some  accidental  circumstance  intervening; 
how  many  of  the  weaknesses  of  mankind 
he  has  escaped,  because  he  was  out  of  the 
line  of  such  temptation  ;  and,  what  often, 
if  not  always,  weighs  more  than  all  the 
rest,  how  much  he  is  indebted  to  the 
world's  good  opinion,  because  the  world 
does  not  know  all.  I  say  any  man  who 
can  thus  think,  will  scan  the  failings,  nay, 
the  faults  and  crimes,  of  mankind  around 
him,  with  a  brother's  eye. 

I  have  often  courted  the  acquaintance 


of  that  part  of  mankind  commonly  known 
by  the  ordinary  phrase  of  blackguards, 

sometimes  farther  than  was  consistent 
witli  the  safety  of  my  character ;  those 
who,  by  thoughtless  prodigality  or  head- 
strong passions  have  been  driven  to  ruin. 
Though  disgraced  by  follies,  nay,  some- 
times "  stained  with  guilt,  *  *  *  * 
*  *,"  I  have  yet  found  among  them,  in 
not  a  few  instances,  some  of  the  noblest 
virtues,  magnanimity,  generosity,  disin- 
terested friendship,  and  even  modesty 


April. 
As  I  am  what  the  men  of  the  world,  if 
they  knew  such  a  man,  would  call  a  whim- 
sical mortal,  I  have  various  sources  of 
pleasure  and  enjoyment,  which  are,  in  a 
manner,  peculiar  to  myself,  or  some  here 
and  there  such  other  out-of-the-way  per- 
son. Such  is  the  peculiar  pleasure  I  take 
in  the  season  of  winter,  more  than  the 
rest  of  the  year.  This,  I  believe,  maybe 
partly  owing  to  my  misfortunes  giving 
my  mind  a  melancholy  cast ;  but  there  is 
something  even  in  the 

"  Mighty  tempest,  and  the  hoary  waste 

Abrupt  and  deep,  stretch'd  o'er  the  buried  earth," — 

which  raises  the  mind  to  a  serious  subli- 
mity, favourable  to  every  thing  great  and 
noble.  There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  ob- 
ject gives  me  more — I  do  not  know  if  I 
should  call  it  pleasure — but  something 
which  exalts  me,  something  which  en- 
raptures me — than  to  walk  in  the  shel- 
tered side  of  a  wood,  or  high  plantation, 
in  a  cloudy  winter-day,  and  hear  the 
stormy  wind  howling  among  the  trees  and 
raving  over  the  plain.  It  is  my  best  sea- 
son for  devotion  ;  my  mind  is  rapt  up  in  a 
kind  of  enthusiasm  to  Him,  who  in  the 
pompous  language  of  the  Hebrew  bard, 
"  walks  on  the  wings  of  the  wind."  In 
one  of  these  seasons,  just  after  a  train  of 
misfortunes,  I  composed  the  following  : 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast,  &c— Poems,  p.  39. 

Shenstone  finely  observes,  that  love- 
verses  writ  without  any  real  passion,  arc 
the  most  nauseous  of  all  conceits  ;   and  1 1 
have  often  thought  that  no  man  can  be  a  I 
proper  critic  of  love  composition,  except' 
lie  himself,  in  one  or  more  instances,  have] 
been  a  warm  votary  of  this  passion.     As 
I  have  been  all  along  a  miserable  dupe  to 
love,  and  have  been   led  into  a  thousand 
weaknesses  and  follies  by  it,  for  that  rca- 


9  1 


LETTERS. 


son  I  put  the  more  confidence  in  my  cri- 
tical skill,  in  distinguishing  "foppery  and 
conceit  from  real  passion  ami  nature. 
Whether  the  following  song  will  stand 
the  test,  I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  because 
it  is  my  own ;  only  I  can  say  it  was,  at 
the  time  genuine  from  the  heart. 

Behind  yon  hills,  &c. See  Poems,  p.  59. 


1  think  the  whole  species  of  young  men 
may  be  naturally  enough  divided  into  two 
grand  classes,  which  1  shall  call  the  grave 
and  the  merry;  though,  by  the  by,  these 
terms  do  not  with  propriety  enough  ex- 
press my  ideas.  The  grave  I  shall  cast 
into  the  usual  division  of  those  who  are 
goaded  on  by  the  love  of  money,  and  those 
whose  darling  wish  is  to  make  a  figure  in 
the  world.  The  merry  are,  the  men  of 
pleasure  of  all  denominations;  the  jovial 
lads,  who  have  too  much  fire  and  spirit  to 
have  any  settled  rule  of  action;  but,  with- 
out much  deliberation  follow  the  strong 
impulses  of  nature :  the  thoughtless,  the 
cureless,  the  indolent — in  particular  he, 
who,  with  a  happy  sweetness  of  natural 
temper,  and  a  cheerful  vacancy  of  thought, 
steals  through  life — generally,  indeed,  in 
poverty  and  obscurity ;  but  poverty  and 
obscurity  are  only  evils  to  him  who  can 
sit  gravely  down  and  make  a  repining 
comparison  between  hisown  situation  and 
that  of  others;  and  lastly,  to  grace  the 
quorum,  such  as  are,  generally,  those 
whose  heads  are  capable  of  all  the  tower- 
ings  of  genius,  and  whose  hearts  are 
wanned  with  all  the  delicacy  of  feeling. 


As  the  grand  end  of  human  life  is  to 
cultivate  an   intercourse  with  that  Being 

to  whom  we  owe  our  life,  with  every  en- 
joyment thai  can  render  life  delightful ; 
and  to  maintain  an  integritive  conduct 
lowardsour  fellow-creatures:  that  so.  by 
forming  piety  and  virtue  into  habit,  we 
may  be  fit  members  for  that  society  of 
the  pious  and  the  good,  which  reason  and 
revelation  teach  us  to  expect  beyond  the 

f  grave  ;  I  do  not  see  that  the  turn  of  mind 
and  pursuits  of  any  son  of  poverty  and 
'  obscurity,  are  in  the  least  more  inimical 
*  to  the  sacred  interests  of  piety  and  vir- 
tue, than  I  he,  even  lawful,  bustling  and 
straining  after  the  world's  riches  and  ho- 
nours;  and  1  do  not  see  but  that  he  may 


gain  Heaven  as  well  (which,  by  the  by, 
is  no  mean  consideration,)  who  steals 
through  the  vale  of  life,  amusing  himself 
with  every  little  flower,  that  fortune 
throws  in  Ins  way:  as  he  who,  straining 
straight  forward,  and  perhaps  bespatter- 
ing all  about  him,  gains  some  of  life's  little 
eminences;  where,  after  all,  he  can  only 
see,  and  be  seen,  a  little  more1  conspicu- 
ously than  what,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart, 
he  is  apt  to  term  the  poor  indolent  devil 
he  has  left  behind  him. 


There  is  a  noble  sublimity,  a  heart- 
melting  tenderness,  in  some  of  our  an- 
cient ballads,  which  show  them  to  be  the 
work  of  a  masterly  hand  ;  and  it  has  often 
given  mi' many  a  heart-ache  to  reflect,  that 
such  glorious  old  bards — bards  who  very 
probably  owed  all  their  talents  to  native 
genius,  yet  have  described  the  exploits 
of  heroes,  the  pangs  of  disappointment, 
and  the  meltings  of  love,  with  such  fine 
strokes  of  nature — that  their  very  names 
(O  how  mortifying  to  a  bard's  vanity!) 
are  now  "buried  among  the  wreck  of 
things  which  were." 

,  O  ye  illustrious  names  unknown  !  who 
could  feel  so  strongly  and  cIom  nbo  so  well ; 
the  last,  the  meanest  of  the  muses'  train 
— one  who,  though  far  inferior  to  your 
flights,  yet  eyes  your  path,  and  with  trem- 
bling wing  would  sometimes  soar  after 
you — a  poor  rustic  bard  unknown,  pays 
this  sympathetic  pang  to  your  memory  ! 
Some  of  you  tell  us  with  all  the  charms  of 
verse,  that  yon  have  been  unfortunate  in 
the  world — unfortunate  in  love  ;  he  too 
has  felt  the  loss  of  his  little  fortune,  the 
loss  of  friends,  and,  worse  than  all,  the 
loss  of  the  woman  he  adored.  Like  you, 
all  his  consolation  was  his  muse:  she 
taught  him  in  rustic  measures  to  complain. 
Happy  could    he  have    done  it  with   your 

strength  of  imagination  and  flow  of  \  erse ! 
May  the  turf  lie  lightly  on  your  bones! 
and  may  you  now  enjoy  that  solace  and 

rest  which  this  world    rarely  gives  to  the 

heart  t d  to  all    the   feelings   of  poesy 

and  love ! 


This  is  all  worth  quoting  in  my  MSS. 
and  more  than  all. 

R.  B. 


LETTERS. 


No.  III. 
TO  MR.  AIKIN. 

The  Gentleman  to  whom  the  Colter's  Saturday  Night 
is  addressed. 


Sir, 


Ayrshire,  1786. 


I  was  withWilson,  my  printer,  t'other 
day,  and  settled  all  our  by-gone  matters 
between  us.  After  I  had  paid  him  all 
demands,  I  made  him  the  offer  of  the  se- 
cond edition,  on  the  hazard  of  being  paid 
out  of  the  first  and  readiest,  which  he  de- 
clines. By  his  account,  the  paper  of  a 
thousand  copies  would  cost  about  twenty- 
seven  pounds,  and  the  printing  about  fif- 
teen or  sixteen ;  he  offers  to  agree  to  this 
for  the  printing,  if  I  will  advance  for  the 
paper  ;  but  this  you  know,  is  out  of  my 
power,  so  farewell  hopes  of  a  second  edi- 
tion till  I  grow  richer  !  an  epocha,  which, 
I  think,  will  arrive  at  the  payment  of  the 
British  national  debt. 

There  is  scarcely  any  thing  hurts  me 
so  much  in  being  disappointed  of  my  se- 
cond edition,  as  not  having  it  in  my  power 
to  show  my  gratitude  to  Mr.  Ballantyne, 
by  publishing  my  poem  of  The  Brigs  of 
Ayr.  I  would  detest  myself  as  a  wretch, 
if  I  thought  I  were  capable,  in  a  very  long 
life,  of  forgetting  the  honest,  warm,  and 
tender  delicacy  with  which  he  enters  into 
my  interests.  I  am  sometimes  pleased 
with  myself  in  my  grateful  sensations ; 
but  I  believe,  on  the  whole,  I  have  very 
little  merit  in  it,  as  my  gratitude  is  not  a 
virtue,  the  consequence  of  reflection,  but 
sheerly  the  instinctive  emotion  of  a  heart 
too  inattentive  to  allow  worldly  maxims 
and  views  to  settle  into  selfish  habits. 

I  have  been  feeling  all  the  various  ro- 
tations and  movements  within,  respecting 
the  excise.  There  are  many  things  plead 
strongly  against  it,  the  uncertainty  of  get- 
ting soon  into  business,  the  consequences 
of  my  follies,  which  may  perhaps  make  it 
impracticable  for  me  to  stay  at  home ; 
and  besides,  I  have  for  some  time  been 
pining  under  secret  wretchedness,  from 
causes  which  you  pretty  well  know — the 
pang  of  disappointment,  the  sting  ofpride, 
with  some  wandering  stabs  of  remorse, 
which  never  fail  to  setffe  on  my  vitals 
like  vultures,  when  attention  is  not  called 
away  by  the  calls  of  society,  or  the  vaga- 
ries of  the  muse.  Even  in  the  hour  of 
social  mirth,  my  gayety  is  the  madness  of 
an  intoxicated  criminal  under  the  hands 


of  the  executioner.  All  these  reasons 
urge  me  to  go  abroad ;  and  to  all  these 
reasons  I  have  only  one  answer — the 
feelings  of  a  father.  This,  in  the  present 
mood  I  am  in,  overbalances  every  thing 
that  can  be  laid  in  the  scale  against  it. 


You  may  perhaps  think  it  an  extrava- 
gant fancy,  but  it  is  a  sentiment  which 
strikes  home  to  my  very  soul ;  though 
sceptical  in  some  points  of  our  current 
belief,  yet,  I  think,  I  have  every  evidence 
for  the  reality  of  a  life  beyond  the  stint- 
ed bourn  of  our  present  existence ;  if  so, 
then  how  should  I,  in  the  presence  of 
that  tremendous  Being,  the  Author  of 
existence,  how  should  I  meet  the  re- 
proaches of  those  who  stand  to  me  in  the 
dear  relation  of  children,  whom  I  desert- 
ed in  the  smiling  innocency  of  helpless 
infancy?  O  thou  great,  unknown  Power! 
thou  Almighty  God  !  who  has  lighted  up 
reason  in  my  breast,  and  blessed  me  with 
immortality  !  I  have  frequently  wandered 
from  that  order  and  regularity  necessary 
for  the  perfection  of  thy  works,  yet  thou 
hast  never  left  me  nor  forsaken  me. 


Since  I  wrote  the  foregoing  sheet,  I 
have  seen  something  of  the  storm  of  mis- 
chief thickening  over  my  folly-devoted 
head.  Should  you,  my  friends,  my  bene- 
factors, be  successful  in  your  applications 
for  me,  perhaps  it  may  not  be  in  my  pow- 
er in  that  way  to  reap  the  fruit  of  your 
friendly  efforts.  What  I  have  written  in 
the  preceding  pages  is  the  settled  tenor 
of  my  present  resolution  ;  but  should  in- 
imical circumstances  forbid  me  closing 
with  your  kind  offer,  or,  enjoying  it,  only 
threaten  to  entail  farther  misery — 


To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  little  reason 
for  complaint,  as  the  world,  in  general, 
has  been  kind  to  me,  fully  up  to  my  de- 
serts. I  was,  for  some  time  past,  fast 
getting  into  the  pining,  distrustful  snarl 
of  the  misanthrope.  I  saw  myself  alone, 
unfit  for  the  struggle  of  life,  shrinking  at 
every  rising  cloud  in  the  chance-directed 
atmosphere  of  fortune,  while,  all  defence- 
less, I  looked  about  in  vain  for  a  cover. 
It  never  occurred  to  me,  at  least  never 
with  the  force  it  deserved,  that  this  world 
is  a  busy  scene,  and  man  a  creature  des- 


9G 


LETTERS. 


tined  for  a  progressive  struggle;  and  that 
however  I  might  possess  a  warm  heart, 
and  inoffensive  manners,  (which  Inst,  by 
the  by,  was  rather  more  than  I  could 
well  boast)  still,  more  than  these  passive 
qualities,  there  was  something  to  be  dont . 
a  all  my  school-fellows  and  youthful 
compeers  (those  misguided  few  excepted 
whi>  joined,  to  use  a  Gentoo  phrase,  the 
hallachores  of  the  human  race,)  were  stri- 
king off  with  eager  hope  and  earnest  in- 
tention sum.'  one  or  other  of  the  many 
paths  of  busy  life,  I  was  standing  '  idle  in 
tin'  market-place,'  or  only  left  the  chase 
of  the  butterfly  from  flower  to  llowcr,  to 
hunt  fancy  from  whim  to  whim. 


You  see,  Sir,  that  if  to  know  one's  er- 
rors were  a  probability  of  minding  them, 

J  stand  a  fair  chance,  hut,  according  to 
the  reverend  Westminster  divines,  though 
conviction  must  precede  conversion,  it  is 
very  far  from  always  implying  it.* 


NO.  IV 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP  OP  DUNLOP. 


Ayrshire,  1786. 


MAI. AM, 


I  \m  truly  sorry  I  was  not  at  home 
yesterday  when  I  was  so  much  honoured 
with  your  order  for  my  copies,  and  incom- 
parably more  by  the  handsome  compli- 
ments you  are  pleased  to  pay  my  poetic 
abilities.  1  am  fully  persuaded  that  there 
is  not  any  class  of  mankind  so  feelingly 
alive  to  the  titillations  of  applause,  as  the 
sons  of  Parnassus ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  con- 
ceive how  the  heart  of  the  poor  hard  dan- 
ces with  rapture,  when  those  whose  cha- 
racter in  life  gives  them  a  right  to  be  po- 
lite judges,  honour  him  with  their  appro- 
bation. Had  you  been  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  me.  Madam,  you  could  not 
have  touched  my  darling  heart-chord  more 

tly  than  by  noticing  my  attempts  to 
celebrate  your  illustrious  ancestor,  the 
Saviour  of  his  Country. 

"Great  patriot-bero !  ill-requited  chief !" 

•This  letter  was  evidently  mitten  under  the  dis- 
'  mind  occasioned  by  our  Poet's  separation  from 
Mm.  Burns.  K 


The  first  book  I  met  with  in  my  early 
years,  which  1  perused  with  pleasure,  was 
The  Lift  of  Hannibal;  the  next  was  The 
History  of  Sir  William  Wallace;  for  se- 
veral of  my  earlier  years  1  had  few  other 
authors;  and  many  a  solitary  hour  have  I 
stole  out,  after  the  laborious  vocations  of 
the  day,  to  shed  a  tear  over  their  glori- 
ous but  unfortunate  stories.  In  those 
boyish  days  1  remember  in  particular  be- 
in"-  struck  with  that  part  of  Wallace's 
story  where  these  lines  occur — 

"  Syne  to  the  Leglen  wood,  when  it  was  late, 
To  make  a  silent  and  a  safe  retreat." 

I  chose  a  fine  summer  Sunday,  the  only 
day  my  line  of  life  allowed,  and  walked 
half  a  dozen  of  miles  to  pay  my  respects 
to  the  Leglen  wood,  with  as  much  devout 
enthusiasm  as  ever  pilgrim  did  to  Loret- 
to;  and,  as  1  explored,  every  den  and  dell 
where  1  could  suppose  my  heroic  country- 
man to  have  lodged,  I  recollect  (for  even 
then  I  was  a  rhymer)  that  my  heart  glow- 
ed with  a  wish  to  be  able  to  make  a  song 
on  him  in  some  measure  equal  to  his 
merits 


NO.  V. 
TO  MRS.  STEWART,  OF  STAIR. 


178G. 


MADAM, 


The  hurry  of  my  preparations  for  go- 
ing abroad  has  hindered  me  from  perform- 
ing my  promise  so  soon  as  I  intended,  I  have 
here  sent  you  a  parcel  of  songs,  &c.  which 
never  made  their  appearance,  except  to  a 
friend  or  two  at  most.  Perhaps  some  of 
them  may  be  no  great  entertainment  to 
you ;  but  of  that  I  am  far  from  being  an 
adequate  judge.  The  song  to  the  tune 
of  Ettrick  Banks,  you  will  easily  see  the 
impropriety  of  exposing  much,  even  in 
manuscript.  I  think,  myself,  it  has  some 
merit,  both  as  a  tolerable  description  of 
one  of  Nature's  sweetesl  scenes,  a  July 

evening,  ami  of  the  finest  pieces  of 

Nature's  workmanship  the  finest,  indeed, 
we  know  any  thing  of.  an  amiable,  beau- 
tiful young  woman  ;*  but  I  have  no  com- 
mon friend  to  procure  me  that  permis- 
sion, without  i  hicli  I  would  not  dare  to 
spread  the  copy. 

*  The  song  enclosed  is  the  one  beginning, 

'Twuicven — the  dewy  fields  were  green,  &c. 
See  l'ocms,  p.  75 


LETTERS. 


97 


I  am  quite  aware,  Madam,  what  task 
the  world  would  assign  me  in  this  letter. 
The  obscure  bard,  when  any  of  the  great 
condescend  to  take  notice  of  him,  should 
heap  the  altar  with  the  incense  of  flatte- 
ry. Their  high  ancestry,  their  own  great 
and  godlike  qualities  and  actions,  should 
be  recounted  with  the  most  exaggerated 
description.  This,  Madam,  is  a  task  for 
which  I  am  altogether  unfit.  Besides  a 
certain  disqualify  ing  pride  of  heart,  I  know 
nothing  ofyour  connexions  in  life,  and  have 
no  access  to  where  your  real  character 
is  to  be  found — the  company  ofyour  com- 
peers; and  more,  I  am  afraid  that  even 
the  most  refined  adulation  is  by  no  means 
the  road  to  your  good  opinion. 

One  feature  of  your  character  I  shall 
ever  with  grateful  pleasure  remember — 
the  reception  I  got  when  I  had  the  ho- 
nour of  waiting  on  you  at  Stair.  I  am 
little  acquainted  with  politeness;  but  I 
know  a  good  deal  of  benevolence  of  tem- 
per and  goodness  of  heart.  Surely,  did 
those  in  exalted  stations  know  how  hap- 
py they  could  make  some  classes  of  their 
inferiors  by  condescension  and  affability, 
they  would  never  stand  so  high,  measur- 
ing out  with  every  look  the  height  of 
their  elevation,  but  condescend  as  sweet- 
ly as  did  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair. 


No.  VI. 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  NINE.     AMEN. 

We  Robert  Burns,  by  virtue  of  a  War- 
rant from  Nature,  bearing  date  the 
Twenty-fifth  day  of  January,  Anno  Do- 
mini one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  fif- 
ty-nine,* Poet-Laureat  and  Bard  in 
Chief  in  and  over  the  Districts  and 
Countries  of  Kyle,  Cunningham,  and 
Carrick,  of  old  extent,  To  our  trusty 
and  well-beloved  William  Chalmers 
and  John  M'Adam,  Students  and  Prac- 
titioners in  the  ancient  and  mysterious 
Science  of  Confounding  Right  and 
Wrong. 

Right  Trusty, 

Be  it  known  unto  you,  That  whereas, 
in  the  course  of  our  care  and  watchings 
over  the  Order  and  Police  of  all  and  sun- 
dry the  Manufacturers,  Retainers, 
and  Venders  of  Poesy  ;  Bards,  Poets, 
Poetasters.  Rhymers,  .Tinglers,  Songsters, 
Ballad-singers,  &c,  &c,  &c,  &c,  &c, 

*  His  birth-day. 


male  and  female — We  have  discovered  a 
certain*  *  *,  nefarious,  abominable,  and 
Wicked  Song,  or  Ballad,  a  copy  where- 
of We  have  here  enclosed  ;  Our  Will 
therefore  is,  that  Ye  pitch  upon  and 
appoint  the  most  execrable  Individual  of 
that  most  execrable  Species,  known  by 
the  appellation,  phrase,  and  nickname  of 
The  Deil's  Yell  Novvte  ;*  and,  after 
having  caused  him  to  kindle  a  fire  at  the 
Cross  of  Ayr,  ye  shall  at  noontide  of 
the  day,  put  into  the  said  wretch's  mer- 
ciless hands  the  said  copy  of  the  said  ne- 
farious and  wicked  Song,  to  be  consumed 
by  fire  in  the  presence  of  all  Beholders, 
in  abhorrence  of,  and  terrorum  to  all  such 
Compositions  and  Composers.  And  this 
in  no  wise  leave  ye  undone,  but  have  it 
executed  in  every  point  as  this  Our  Man- 
date bears  before  the  twenty-fourth  cur- 
rent, when  in  person  We  hope  to  ap- 
plaud your  faithfulness  and  zeal. 

Given  at  Mauchline,  this  twentieth 
day  of  November,  Anno  Domini  one  thou- 
sand seven  hundred  and  eighty-six.f 
God  save  the  bard  ! 


No.  VII. 

DR.  BLACKLOCK 

TO  THE  REVEREND  MR.  G. 

LOWRIE. 

REVEREND  and  dear  sir, 

I  ought  to  have  acknowledged  your 
favour  long  ago,  not  only  as  a  testimony 
of  your  kind  remembrance,  but  as  it  gave 
me  an  opportunity  of  sharing  one  of  the 
finest,  and,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  genu- 
ine entertainments,  of  which  the  human 
mind  is  susceptible.  A  number  of  avoca- 
tions retarded  my  progress  in  reading  the 
poems  ;  at  last,  however,  I  have  finished 
that  pleasing  perusal.  Many  instances 
have  I  seen  of  Nature's  force  and  benefi- 
cence exerted  under  numerous  and  formi- 
dable disadvantages ;  but  none  equal  to 
that  with  which  you  have  been  kind  enough 
to  present  me.  There  is  a  pathos  and  deli- 
cacy in  his  serious  poems,  a  vein  of  wit  and 
humour  in  those  of  a  more  festive  turn, 
which  cannot  be  toomuch  admired,  nor  too 
warmly  approved  ;  and  I  think  I  shall  never 

*  Old  Bachelors. 

f  Enclosed  was  the  ballad,  probably  Holy  Wlltic's 
Prayer.     E. 


93 


LETTERS. 


open  the  book  without  feeling  my  aston- 
ishment renewed  and  increased.  It  was 
mv  wish- to  have  expressed  my  approba- 
tion in  verse  ;  but  whether  from  declining 
life,  or  a  temporary  depression  of  spirits, 
it  is  at  present  out  of  my  power  to  accom- 
plish that  agreeable  intention. 

Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Morals  in 
this  University,  had  formerly  read  me 
throe  of  the  poems,  and  I  had  desired  him 
to  get  my  name  inserted  among  the  sub- 
scribers ;  but  whether  this  was  done,  or 
not,  I  never  could  learn.  I  have  little 
intercourse  with  Dr.  Blair,  but  will  take 
care  to  have  the  poems  communicated  to 
him  by  the  intervention  of  some  mutual 
friend.  It  has  been  told  me  by  a  Gentle- 
man, to  whom  I  showed  the  performances, 
and  who  sought  a  copy  with  diligence  and 
ardour,  that  the  whole  impression  is  al- 
ready exhausted.  It  were,  therefore, 
much  to  be  wished,  for  the  sake  of  the 
young  man,  that  a  second  edition,  more 
numerous  than  the  former,  could  imme- 
diately be  printed  :  as  it  appears  certain 
that  its  intrinsic  merit  and  the  exertion  of 
the  author's  friends,  might  give  it  a  more 
universal  circulation  than  any  thing  of 
the  kind  which  has  been  published  within 
my  memory.* 


No.  VIII. 
FROM  THE  REVEREND  MR. 
LOWRIE. 

22d  December,  1786. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  last  week  received  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Elacklock,  in  which  he  expresses  a 
desire  of  seeing  you,  I  write  this  to  you, 
that  you  may  lose  no  time  in  waiting 
upon  him,  should  you  not  yet  have  seen 
him. 


I  rejoice  to  hear,  from  all  corners,  of  your 

*  The  reader  will  perceive  that  this  is  the  letter  which 
produi  ed  the  determination  of  out  Bard  to  give  up  his 
scheme  ol  going  to  tb.9  Weal  indies,  and  to  try  the  fate 
ofa  new  Edition  of  his  Poema  in  Edinburgh.  A  copy 
of  this  letter  was  sent  by  Mr  Lowrie  to  Mr.  G.  Hamil- 
ton, and  by  him  communicated  to  Hums,  among  whose 
paper?  it  was  found. 

Tor  an  account  ol  Mr.  I.owrie  and  hid  family,  sec  the 
Iciier  of  Gilbert  Bums  to  the  Editor. 


rising  fame,  and  I  wish  and  expect  it  may 
tower  still  higher  by  the  new  publication. 
But,  as  a  friend,  I  warn  you  to  prepare  to 
meet  with  your  share  of  detraction  and 
envy — a  train  that  always  accompany 
great  men.  For  your  comfort  I  am  in 
great  hopes  that  the  number  of  your 
friends  and  admirers  will  increase,  and 
that  you  have  some  chance  of  ministerial, 
or  even  *****  patronage.  Now,  my 
friend,  such  rapid  success  is  very  uncom- 
mon :  and  do  you  think  yourself  in  no 
danger  of  suffering  by  applause  and  a  full 
purse  ?  Remember  Solomon's  advice, 
which  he  spoke  from  experience,  "  stron- 
ger is  he  that  conquers,"  &c.  Keep  fast 
hold  of  your  rural  simplicity  and  purity, 
like  Tclemachus,  by  Mentor's  aid,  in 
Calypso's  isle,  or  even  in  that  of  Cyprus. 
I  hope  you  have  also  Minerva  with  you. 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  much  a  modest 
diffidence  and  invincible  temperance  adorn 
the  most  shining  talents,  and  elevate  the 
mind,  and  exalt  and  refine  the  imagina- 
tion, even  ofa  poet. 

I  hope  you  will  not  imagine  I  speak 
from  suspicion  or  evil  report.  I  assure 
you  I  speak  from  love  and  good  report, 
and  good  opinion,  and  a  strong  desire  to 
see  you  shine  as  much  in  the  sunshine  as 
you  have  done  in  the  shade  ;  and  in  the 
practice,  as  you  do  in  the  theory  of  vir- 
tue. This  is  my  prayer,  in  return  for 
your  elegant  composition  in  verse.  All 
here  join  in  compliments  and  good  wishes 
for  your  further  prosperity. 


No.  IX. 


TO  MR.  CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh,  21th  Dec.  1786, 

MY  DEAR   FRIEND, 

I  confess  I  have  sinned  the  sin  for 
which  there  is  hardly  any  forgiveness — 
ingratitude  to  friendship — in  not  writing 
you  sooner  ;  but  of  all  men  living,  I  had 
intended  to  send  you  an  entertaining  let- 
ter ;  and  by  all  the  plodding  stupid  pow- 
ers that  in  nodding  conceited  majesty  pre- 
side over  the  dull  routine  of  business — a 
heavily  solemn  oath  this  ! — I  am,  and 
have  been  ever  since  I  came  to  Edinburgh 
as  unfit  to  write  a  letter  of  humour  as  to 
write  a  commentary  on  the  Revelations. 


LETTERS. 


99 


To  make  you  some  amends  for  what, 
before  you  reacb  this  paragraph  you  will 
have  suffered,  I  enclose  you  two  poems  I 
have  carded  and  spun  since  I  passed  Glen- 
buck.  ( )ne  blank  in  the  address  to  Edin- 
burgh, "  Fair  13 ,"   is  the  heavenly 

Miss  Burnet,  daughter  to  Lord  Monbod- 
do,  at  whose  house  I  had  the  honour  to  be 
more  than  once.  There  has  not  been 
any  tiling  nearly  like  her,  in  all  the  com- 
binations of  beauty,  grace,  and  goodness, 
the  great  Creator  has  formed,  since  Mil- 
ton's Eve  on  the  first  day  of  her  existence. 

1  have  sent  you  a  parcel  of  subscription- 
hills  :  and  have  written  to  Mr.  Ballantyne 
and  .Mr.  Aiken,  to  call  on  you  for  some  of 
them,  if  they  want  them.  My  direction 
is — care  of  Andrew  Bruce,  Merchant, 
Bridgfe-street. 


No.  X. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  EGLINTON. 

Edinburgh,  January,  1787. 

MY  LORD, 

As  I  have  but  slender  pretensions  to 
philosophy,  I  cannot  rise  to  the  exalted 
ideas  of  a  citizen  of  the  world  ;  but  have 
all  those  national  prejudices  which,  I  be- 
lieve, grow  peculiarly  strong  in  the  breast 
of'  a  Scotchman.  There  is  scarcely  any 
thing  to  which  I  am  so  feelingly  alive  ; 
as  the  honour  and  welfare  of  my  country; 
and,  as  a  poet,  I  have  no  higher  enjoy- 
ment than  singing  her  sons  and  daugh- 
ters. Fate  had  cast  my  station  in  the 
veriest  shades  of  life  ;  but  never  did  a 
heart  pant  more  ardently  than  mine,  to 
be  distinguished  ;  though  till  very  lately, 
I  looked  in  vain  on  every  side  for  a  ray 
of  light.  It  is  easy,  then,  to  guess  how 
much  I  was  gratified  with  the  counte- 
nance and  approbation  of  one  of  my  coun- 
try's most  illustrious  sons,  when  Mr. 
Wauchope  called  on  me  yesterday  on  the 
part  of  your  Lordship.  Your  munificence, 
my  Lord,  certainly  deserves  my  very 
grateful  acknowledgments  ;  but  your  pat- 
ronage is  a  bounty  peculiarly  suited  to 
my  feelings.  I  am  not  master  enough  of 
the  etiquette  of  life,  to  know  whether 
there  be  not  some  impropriety  in  troub- 
ling your  Lordship  with  my  thanks  ;  but 
my  heart  whispered  me  to  do  it.  From 
the  emotions  of  my  inmost  6oul  I  do  it. 
Selfish  ingratitude,  I  hope,  I  am  incapa- 
ble of;  and  mercenary  servility,  I  trust  I 
shall  ever  have  so  much  honest  pride  as 
to  detest. 

TJ 


No.  XT. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  15th  January,  1787. 
MAD  AM, 

Yours  of  the  9th  current,  which  I  am 
this  moment  honoured  with,  is  a  deep  re- 
proach to  me  for  ungrateful  neglect.  I 
will  tell  you  the  real  truth,  for  1  am  mise- 
rably awkward  at  a  fib;  I  wished  to  have 
written  to  Dr.  Moore  before  I  wrote  to 
you;  but  though,  every  day  since  I  re- 
ceived yours  of  December  30th,  the  idea, 
the  wish  to  write  to  him,  has  constantly 
pressed  on  my  thoughts,  yet  T  could  not 
for  my  soul  set  about  it.  I  know  his  fame 
and  character,  and  I  am  one  of  "  the  sons 
of  little  men."  To  write  him  a  mere  mat- 
ter-of-fact affair,  like  a  merchant's  order, 
would  be  disgracing  the  little  character  I 
have ;  and  to  write  the  author  of  The 
View  of  Society  and  Manners  a  letter  of 
sentiment — I  declare  every  artery  runs 
cold  at  the  thought.  I  shall  try,  how- 
ever, to  write  to  him  to-morrow  or  next 
day.  His  kind  interposition  in  my  behalf 
I  have  already  experienced,  as  a  gentle- 
man waited  on  me  the  other  day  on  the 
part  of  Lord  Eglington,  with  ten  guineas, 
by  way  of  subscription  for  two  copies  of 
my  next  edition. 

The  word  you  object  to  in  the  mention 
I  have  made  of  my  glorious  countryman 
and  your  immortal  ancestor,  is  indeed  bor- 
rowed from  Thomson  ;  but  it  does  not 
strike  me  as  an  improper  epithet.  I  dis- 
trusted my  own  judgment  on  your  finding 
fault  with  it,  and  applied  for  the  opinion 
of  some  of  the  literati  here,  who  honour 
me  with  their  critical  strictures,  and  they 
all  allow  it  to  be  proper.  The  song  you 
ask  I  cannot  recollect,  and  I  have  not  a 
copy  of  it.  I  have  not  composed  any 
thing  on  the  great  Wallace,  except  what 
you  have  seen  in  print,  and  the  inclosed, 
which  I  will  print  in  this  edition.*  You 
will  see  I  have  mentioned  some  others  of 
the  name.  When  I  composed  my  Vision 
long  ago,  I  attempted  a  description  of 
Koyle,  of  which  the  additional  stanzas 
are  a  part,  as  it  originally  stood.  My 
heart  glows  with  a  wish  to  be  able  to  do 
justice  to  the  merits,  of  the  Saviour  of  his 
Country,  which,  sooner  or  later,  I  shall  at 
least  attempt. 

*  Stanzas  in  the  Vision,  beginning  "  By  stately  tower 
or  pnlace  fair  "  and  ending  with  the  first  Duan.     E. 


100 


LETTERS. 


You  are  afraid  I  shall  grow  intoxicated 
with  my  prosperity  as  a  poet.  Alas! 
Madam,  1  know  myself  and  the  world  too 
well.  I  do  not  moan  any  airs  of  affected 
modesty;  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  my 
abilities  deserved  some  notice  ;  but  in  a 
most  enlightened,  informed  age  and  na- 
tion, when  poetry  is  and  has  been  the 
study  of  men  of  the  first  natural  genius, 
aided  with  all  the  powers  of  polite  learn- 
ing, polite  books,  and  polite  company — 
to  be  dragged  forth  to  the  fujl  glare  of 
learned  and  polite  observation,  with  all 
my  imperfections  of  awkward  rusticity 
and  crude  unpolished  ideas  on  my  head — 
I  a --ure  you,  Madam,  I  do  not  dissemble 
w  ben  1  tell  you  I  tremble  for  the  conse- 
quences. The  novelty  of  a  poet  in  my 
obscure  situation,  without  any  of  those 
ail  vantages  which  are  reckoned  necessary 
for  that  character,  at  least  at  this  time  of 
day,  has  raised  a  partial  tide  of  public  no- 
tice, which  has  borne  me  to  a  height  where 
1  am  absolutely,  feelingly  certain  my  abi- 
lities are  inadequate  to  support  me ;  and 
too  surely  do  I  see  that  time  when  the 
same  tide  will  leave  me,  and  recede,  per- 
haps, as  far  below  the  mark  of  truth.  I 
do  not  say  this  in  the  ridiculous  affecta- 
tion of  self-abasement  and  modesty.  I 
have  studied  myself,  and  know  what 
ground  T  occupy  ;  and,  however  a  friend 
or  the  world  may  differ  from  me  in  that 
particular,  I  stand  for  my  own  opinion  in 
silent  resolve,  with  all  the  tenaciousness 
of  property.  I  mention  this  to  you,  once 
for  all,  to  disburden  my  mind,  and  I  do 
not  wish  to  hear  or  say  more  about  it. — 
But 

"  When  proud  fortune's  ebbing  tide  recedes," 

you  will  bear  me  witness,  that,  when  my 
bubble  of  fame  wras  at  the  highest,  I  stood, 
unintoxicated,  with  the  inebriating  cup 
in  my  hand,  looking  forward  with  rueful 
resolve  to  the  hastening  time  when  the 
blow  of  Calumny  should  dash  it  to  the 
ground,  with  all  the  eagerness  of  venge- 
ful triumph. 


Your  patronising  me,  and  interesting 
yourself  in  my  fame  and  character  as  a 
poet,  I  rejoice  in;  it  exalts  me  in  my  own 
idea  ;  and  whether  you  can  or  cannot  aid 
me  in  my  subscription  is  a  trifle.  Has  a 
paltry  subscript  ion-bill  any  charms  to  the 
heart  of  a  bard,  compared  with  the  pat- 
ronage of  the  descendant  of  the  immortal 
W  all  ace  ? 


No.  XII. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 


1787. 


SIR, 


Mrs.  Dunlop  has  been  so  kind  as  to 
send  me  extracts  of  letters  she  has  had 
from  you,  win-re  you  do  the  rustic  bare 
the  honour  of  noticing  him  and  his  works. 
Those  who  have  felt  the  anxieties  and 
solicitude  of  authorship,  can  only  know 
what  pleasure  it  gives  to  be  noticed  in 
such  a  manner  by  judges  of  the  first  cha- 
racter. Your  criticisms,  Sir,  I  receive 
with  reverence  ;  only  I  am  sorry  they 
mostly  came  too  late  ;  a  peccant  passage 
or  two,  that  I  would  certainly  have  alter- 
ed, were  gone  to  the  press. 

The  hope  to  be  admired  for  ages  is,  in 
by  far  the  greater  part  of  those  even  who 
were  authors  of  repute,  an  unsubstantial 
dream.  For  my  part,  my  first  ambition 
was,  and  still  my  strongest  wish  is,  to 
please  my  compeers,  the  rustic  inmates  of 
the  hamlet,  while  ever-changing  language 
and  manners  shall  allow  me  to  be  relished 
and  understood.  I  am  very  willing  to 
admit  that  I  have  some  poetical  abilities : 
and  as  few,  it'  any  writers,  either  moral 
or  political,  are  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  classes  of  mankind  among  whom 
I  have  chiefly  mingled,  I  may  have  seen 
men  and  manners  in  a  different  phasis 
from  what  is  common,  which  may  assist 
originality  of  thought.  Still  I  know  very 
well  the  novelty  of  my  character  has  by 
far  the  greatest  share  in  the  learned  and 
polite  notice  I  have  lately  had  ;  and  in  a 
language  where  Pope  and  Churchill  have 
raised  the  laugh,  and  Shenstone  and  Gray 
drawn  the  tear — where  Thomson  and 
Beattie  have  painted  the  landscape,  and 
Lyttleton  and  Collins  described  the  heart, 
I  am  not  vain  enough  to  hope  for  distin- 
guished poetic  fame. 


No.  XIII. 
FROM  DR.  MOORE. 
Clifford-street,  January  23 d,  1787. 


SIR, 


T  bate  just  received  your  letter,  by 
which  I  find  I  have  reason  to  complain  of 
my  friend  Mrs.  Dunlop,  for  transmitting 
to  you  extracts  from  my  letters  to  her, 
by  much  too  freely  and  too  carelessly 


LETTERS. 


101 


written  for  your  perusal.  I  must  forgive 
her,  however,  in  consideration  of  her  (rood 
intention,  as  you  will  forgive  me,  I  hope, 
for  the  freedom  I  use  with  certain  expres- 
sions, in  consideration  of  my  admiration 
of  t  he  poems  in  general.  If  I  may  j  ndge 
of  the  author's  disposition  from  his  works, 
with  all  the  good  qualities  of  a  poet,  he 
has  not  the  irritable  temper  ascribed  to 
that  race  of  men  by  one  of  their  own 
number,  whom  you  have  the  happiness  to 
resemble  in  ease  and  curious  felicity  of 
expression.  Indeed  the  poetical  beauties, 
however  original  and  brilliant,  and  lavish- 
ly scattered,  are  not  all  I  admire  in  your 
works  ;  the  love  of  your  native  country, 
that  feeling  sensibility  to  all  the  objects 
of  humanity,  and  the  independent  spirit 
which  breathes  through  the  whole,  give 
me  a  most  favourable  impression  of  the 
poet,  and  have  made  me  often  regret  that 
I  did  not  see  the  poems,  the  certain  effect 
of  ,vhich  would  have  been  my  seeing  the 
author  last  summer,  when  I  was  longer 
in  Scotland  than  I  have  been  for  many 
years. 

I  rejoice  very  sincerely  at  the  encou- 
ragement you  receive  at  Edinburgh,  and 
I  think  you  peculiarly  fortunate  in  the 
patronage  of  Dr.  Blair,  who  I  am  inform- 
ed interests  himself  very  much  for  you. 
I  beg  to  be  remembered  to  him :  nobody 
can  have  a  warmer  regard  for  that  gen- 
tleman than  I  have,  which,  independent 
of  the  worth  of  his  character,  would  be 
kept  alive  by  the  memory  of  our  common 
friend,  the  late  Mr.  George  B e. 

Before  I  received  your  letter,  I  sent  in- 
closed in  a  letter  to ,  a  sonnet  by 

Miss  Williams  a  young  poetical  lady, 
which  she  wrote  on  reading  your  Moun- 
tain-Daisy ;  perhaps  it  may  not  displease 
you.* 

I  have  been  trying  to  add  to  the  num- 

*  The  Sonnet  is  as  follows : 

While  soon  "  the  garden's  flaunting  flovv'rs"  decay 

And  scatter'd  on  the  earth  neglected  lie, 
The  "  Mountain-Daisy,"  cherish' d  by  the  ray 

A  poet  drew  from  heaven,  shall  never  die. 
Ah  !  like  the  lonely  flower  the  poet  rose! 

'  Mid  penury's  hare  soil  and  bitter  gale: 
He  felt  each  storm  that  on  the  mountain  blows, 

Nor  ever  knew  the  shelter  of  the  vale. 
By  genius  in  her  native  vigour  nursed, 

On  nature  with  impassion'd  look  he  gazed, 
Then  through  the  cloud  of  adverse  fortune  burst 

Indignant,  and  in  light  unborrow'd  blazed. 
Scotia !  from  rude  afflictions  shield  thy  bard, 
His  heaven-taught  numbers  Fame  herself  will  guard. 


ber  of  your  subscribers,  but  find  many  of 
my  acquaintance  are  already  among  them- 
I  have  only  to  add,  that  with  every  sen- 
timent of  esteem  and  the  most  cordial 
good  wishes, 
I  am, 

Your  obedient,  humble  servant, 
J.  MOORE. 


No.  XIV. 

TO  THE  REV.  G.  LOWRIE,  OF 
NEW-MILLS,  NEAR  KILMAR- 
NOCK. 

Edinburgh,  5th  Feb.  1707. 

REVEREND  AND  DEAR  SIR, 

When  I  look  at  the  date  of  your 
kind  letter,  my  heart  reproaches  me  se- 
verely with  ingratitude  in  neglecting  so 
long  to  answer  it.  I  will  not  trouble  you 
with  any  account,  hy  way  of  apology,  of 
my  hurried  life  and  distracted  attention  : 
do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  my  delay 
by  no  means  proceeded  from  want  of  re- 
spect. I  feel,  and  ever  shall  feel,  for  you, 
the  mingled  sentiments  of  esteem  for  a 
friend,  and  reverence  for  a  father. 

I  thank  you,  Sir,  with  all  my  soul,  for 
your  friendly  hints  ;  though  I  do  not  need 
them  so  much  as  my  friends  are  apt  to 
imagine.  You  are  dazzled  with  newspa- 
per accounts  and  distant  reports  ;  but  in 
reality,  I  have  no  great  temptation  to  be 
intoxicated  with  the  cup  of  prosperity. 
Novelty  may  attract  the  attention  of  man- 
kind awhile  ;  to  it  I  owe  my  present  eclat ; 
but  I  see  the  time  not  far  distant,  when 
the  popular  tide,  which  has  borne  me  to  a 
height  of  which  I  am  perhaps  unworthy, 
shall  recede  with  silent  celerity,  and  leave 
me  a  barren  waste  of  sand,  to  descend  at 
my  leisure  to  my  former  station.  I  do 
not  say  this  in  the  affectation  of  modesty  ; 
I  see  the  consequence  is  unavoidable,  and 
am  prepared  for  it.  I  had  been  at  a  good 
deal  of  pains  to  form  a  just,  impartial  es- 
timate of  my  intellectual  powers,  before 
I  came  here ;  I  have  not  added,  since  I 
came  to  Edinburgh,  any  thing  to  the 
account ;  and  I  trust  I  shall  take  every 
atom  of  it  back  to  my  shades,  the  coverts 
of  my  unnoticed,  early  years. 

In  Dr.  Blacklock,  whom  I  see  very  of- 
ten, I  have  found,  what  I  would  have  ex- 
pected in  our  friend,  a  clear  head  and  an 
excellent  heart. 


102 


LETTERS. 


By  f;ir  the  most  agreeable  hours  I  spend 
in  Edinburgh  must  be  placed  to  the  ac- 
count of  M  iss  Lowrie  and  her  piano-forte. 
I  cannot  help  repeating-  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Lowrie  a  compliment  that  .Mr.  .Macken- 
zie the  celebrated  "  Man  of  Feeling," 
paid  to  Miss  Lowrie,  the  other  night,  at 
the  concert.  I  had  come  in  at  the  inter- 
lude, and  sat  down  by  him,  till  1  saw  Miss 
Lowrie  in  a  scat  not  very  far  distant,  and 
went  up  to  pay  my  respects  to  her.  On 
my  return  to  Mr.  Mackenzie,  he  asked 
me  who  she  was;  I  told  him  'twas  the 
daughter  of  a  reverend  friend  of  mine  in 
the  west  country.  He  returned,  There 
was  something  very  striking,  to  his  idea, 
in  her  appearance.  On  my  desiring  to 
know  what  it  was,  he  was  pleased  to  say, 
"  She  has  a  great  deal  of  the  elegance  of 
a  well-bred  lady  about  her,  with  all  the 
sweet  simplicity  of  a  country-girl." 

My  compliments  to  all  the  happy  in- 
mates of  Saint  Margarets. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Yours  most  gratefully, 

ROBT.  BURNS. 


No.  XV. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  15th  February,  1787. 

SIR, 

Pardon  my  seeming  neglect  in  de- 
laying so  long  to  acknowledge  the  honour 
you  have  dour  me,  in  your  kind  notice  of 
me,  January  23d.  Not  many  months  ago, 
I  knew  no  other  employment  than  follow- 
ing the  plough,  nor  could  boast  any  thing 
higher  than  a  distant  acquaintance  with 
a  country  clergyman.  Merc  greatness 
never  embarrasses  me  ;  I  have  nothing  to 
ask  from  the  great,  and!  do  not.  fear  their 
judgment ;  but  genius,  polished  by  learn- 
ing, and  at  its  proper  point  of  elevation  in 
the  eye  of  the  world,  this  of  late  I  fre- 
quently meet  with,  and  tremble  at  its 
approach.  I  scorn  the  a  tier)  at  ion  of  seem- 
ing modesty  to  cover  self-conceit.  That 
I  have  some  merit,  I  do  not  deny;  but  I 
see,  with  frequent  wringings  of  heart, 
that  the  novelty  of  my  character,  and  the 
honest  national  prejudice  of  my  country- 
men, have  borne  me  to  a  height  altoge- 
ther untenable  to  my  abilities. 


For  the  honour  Miss  W.  has  done  me, 
please.  Sir,  return  her,  in  my  name,  my 
most  grateful  thanks.  1  have  more  than 
once  thought  of  paving  her  in  kind,  but 
have  hitherto  quitted  the  idea  in  hope 
despondency.  I  had  never  before  heard 
of  her ;  but  the  other  day  I  got  her  po- 
ems, which,  for  several  reasons,  some  be- 
longing to  the  head,  and  others  the  off- 
spring of  the  heart,  gave  me  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure.  I  have  little  pretensions  to 
critic  lore :  there  are,  I  think,  two  cha- 
racteristic features  in  her  poetry — the  un- 
fettered wild  flight  of  native  genius,  and 
the  querulous,  sombre  tenderness  of  time- 
settled  sorrow. 

I  only  know  what  pleases  me,  often 
without  being  able  to  tell  why. 


No.  XVI. 
FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

Clifford-Street,  23th  February,  1787. 

DEAR  SIR, 

Your  letter  of  the  15th  gave  me  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure.  It  is  not  surpri- 
sing that  you  improve  in  correctness  and 
taste,  considering  where  you  have  been 
for  some  time  past.  And  I  dare  swear 
there  is  no  danger  of  your  admitting  any 
polish  which  might  weaken  the  vigour  of 
your  native  powers. 

T  am  glad  to  perceive  that  you  disdain 
the  nauseous  affectation  of  decrying  your 
own  merit  as  a  poet,  an  affectation  which 
is  displayed  with  most  ostentation  by  those 
who  have  the  greatest  share  of  self-con- 
ceit, and  which  only  adds  undeceiving 
falsehood  to  disgusting  vanity.  For  you 
to  deny  the  merit  of  your  poems,  would 
be  arraigning  the  fixed  opinion  of  the 
public. 

As  the  new  edition  of  my  View  of  So- 
ciety is  not  yet  ready,  I  have  sent  you  the 
former  edition,  which  I  beg  you  will  ac- 
cept as  a  small  mark  of  my  esteem.  It  is 
sent  by  sea  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Creech ; 
and  along  with  these  four  volumes  for 
yourself,  I  have  also  sent  my  Medical 
Sketches^  in  one  volume,  for  my  friend 
Mrs.  Dunlop,  of  Dunlop:  this  you  will 
be  so  obliging  as  to  transmit,  or,  if  you 
chance  to  pass  soon  by  Dunlop,  to  give 
to  her. 


LETTERS. 


103 


I  am  happy  to  hear  that  your  subscrip- 
tion is  so  ample,  and  shall  rejoice  at  eve- 
ry piece  of  good  fortune  that  befalls  you, 
for  you  are  a  very  great  favourite  in  my 
family;  and  this  is  a  higher  compliment 
than,  perhaps,  you  are  aware  of.  It  in- 
cludes almost  all  the  professions^  and,  of 
course,  is  a  proof  that  your  writings  arc 
adapted  to  various  tastes  and  situations. 
Mv  youngest  son,  who  is  at  Winchester 
School,,  writes  to  me  that  he  is  translating 
some  stanzas  of  your  Hallow  E'en  into 
Latin  verse,  for  the  benefit  of  his  com- 
rades. This  union  of  taste  partly  pro- 
ceeds, no  doubt,  from  the  cement  of  Scot- 
tish partiality,  with  which  they  are  all 
somewhat  tinctured.  Even  your  transla- 
tor, who  left  Scotland  too  early  in  life  for 
recollection,  is  not  without  it. 


I  remain,  with  great  sincerity, 
Your  obedient  servant, 

J.  MOORE. 


'       NO.  XVII. 
TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 
Edinburgh,  1787. 

MY  LORD, 

I  wanted  to  purchase  a  profile  of 
your  Lordship,  which  I  was  told  was  to 
be  got  in  town :  but  I  am  truly  sorry  to 
see  that  a  blundering  painter  lias  spoiled 
a  "  human  face  divine."  The  enclosed 
stanzas  I  intended  to  have  written  below 
a  picture  or  profile  of  your  Lordship,  could 
I  have  been  so  happy  as  to  procure  one 
with  any  thing  of  a  likeness. 

As  I  will  soon  return  to  my  shades,  I 
wanted  to  have  something  like  a  material 
object  for  my  gratitude  ;  1  wanted  to  have 
it  in  my  power  to  say  to  a  friend,  There 
is  my  noble  patron,  my  generous  benefac- 
tor. Allow  me,  my  Lord,  to  publish  these 
verses.  I  conjure  your  Lordship,  by  the 
honest  throe  of  gratitude,  by  the  generous 
wish  of  benevolence,  by  all  the  powers 
and  feelings  which  compose  the  magnani- 
mous mind,  do  not  deny  me  this  petition.* 
1  owe  much  to  your  Lordship  ,•  and,  what 

*  It  dors  not  appea  that  t'.ie  Earl  granted  this  request, 
nnr  have  the  verses  alluded  to  been  found  among  the 
MSS.    B. 


has  not  in  some  other  instances  always 
been  the  case  with  roe,  the  weight  of  the 
obligation  is  a  pleasing  load.  I  trust  I 
have  a  heart  us  independent  as  your  Lord- 
ship's, t  ban  u  Inch  I  can  say  nothing  more: 
And  I  would  not  be  beholden  to  favours 
that  would  crucity  my  feelings.  Your 
dignified  character  in  life,  and  manner  of 
supporting  that  character,  are  flattering 
to  my  pride;  and  I  would  be  jealous  of 
the  purity  of  my  grateful  attachment 
where  I  was  under  the  patronage  of  one 
of  the  much-favoured  sons  of  fortune. 

Almost  every  poet  has  celebrated  his  pa- 
trons, particularly  when  they  were  names 
dear  to  fame,  and  illustrious  in  their  coun- 
try ;  allow  me,  then,  my  Lord,  if  you  think 
the  verses  have  intrinsic  merit,  to  tell  the 
world  how  much  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

Your  Lordship's  highly  indebted, 

and  ever  grateful  humble  servant 


No.  XVIII. 
TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

MY  LORD, 

The  honour  your  Lordship  has  done 
me,  by  your  notice  and  advice  in  yours  of 
the  1  st  instant,  I  shall  ever  gratefully  re- 
member : 

"  Praise  from  thy  lips  'tis  mine  with  joy  to  boast, 
They  best  can  give  it  who  deserve  it  most." 

Your  Lordship  touches  the  darling 
chord  of  my  heart,  when  you  advise  me 
to  fire  my  muse  at  Scottish  story  and 
Scottish  scenes.  I  wish  for  nothing  more 
than  to  make  a  leisurely,  pilgrimage 
through  my  native  country :  to  sit  and 
muse  on  those  once  hard-contended  fields 
where  Caledonia,  rejoicing,  saw  her 
bloody  lion  borne  through  broken  ranks 
to  victory  and  fame  ;  and  catching  the  in- 
spiration, to  pour  the  deathless  names  in 
song.  But,  my  Lord,  in  the  midst  of 
these  enthusiastic  reveries,  a  long-visa- 
ged, dry,  moral-looking  phantom  strides 
across  my  imagination,  and  pronounces 
these  emphatic  words : 

"  I  wisdom,  dwell  with  prudence. 
Friend  I  do  not  come  to  open  the  ill-clos- 
ed wounds  of  your  follies  and  misfortunes, 
merely  to  give  you  pain ;  I  wish  through 
these  wounds  to  imprint  a  lasting  lesson 


104 


LETTERS. 


on  your  heart.  I  will  not  mention  how 
many  of  my  salutary  advices  you  have  de- 
spised ;  I  have  given  you  line  upon  line,  and 
precept  upon  precept  ;  and  while  I  was 
chalking  out  to  you  the  straight  way  to 
wealth  and  character,  with  audacious 
effrontery,  you  have  zig-zagged  across 
the  path,  contemning  me  to  my  face ;  you 
know  the  consequences.  It  is  not  yet 
three  months  since  home  was  so  hot  for 
you,  that  you  were  on  the  wing  for  the 
western  shore  of  the  Atlantic,  not  to 
make  a  fortune,  but  to  hide  your  misfor- 
tune. 

"  Now  that  your  dear-loved  Scotia  puts 
it  in  your  power  to  return  to  the  situation 
of  your  forefathers,  will  you  follow  these 
Will-o'-Wisp  meteors  of  fancy  und  whim, 
till  they  bring  you  once  more  to  the  brink 
of  ruin  ?  I  grant  that  the  utmost  ground 
you  can  occupy  is  but  half  a  step  from  the 
veriest  poverty ;  but  still  it  is  half  a  step 
from  it.  If  all  that  I  can  urge  be  inef- 
fectual, let  her  who  seldom  calls  to  you 
in  vain,  let  the  call  of  pride,  prevail  with 
you.  You  know  how  you  feel  at  the  iron 
grip  of  ruthless  oppression :  you  know 
how  you  bear  the  galling  sneer  of  con- 
tumelious greatness.  I  hold  you  out  the 
conveniences,  the  comforts  of  life,  inde- 
pendence and  character,  on  the  one  hand; 
I  tender  you  servility,  dependence,  and 
wretchedness,  on  the  other,  I  will  not  in- 
sult your  understanding  by  bidding  you 
make  a  choice."* 

This,  my  Lord,  is  unanswerable.  I 
must  return  to  my  humble  station,  and 
woo  my  rustic  muse  in  my  wonted  way 
at  the  plough-tail.  Still,  my  Lord,  while 
the  drops  of  life  warm  my  heart,  grati- 
tude to  that  dear  loved  country  in  which 
I  boast  my  birth,  and  gratitude  to  tiiose 
her  distinguished  sons,  who  have  honour- 
ed me  so  much  with  their  patronage  and 
approbation,  shall  while  stealing  through 
my  humble  shades,  ever  distend  my  bo- 
som, and  at  times,  as  now,  draw  forth  the 
swelling1  tear. 


No.  XIX. 

Ext.  Property  in  favour  of  Mr.  Robert  Rums,  to  erect 
and  keep  up  a  Headstone  in  memory  of  Poet  Fer- 
gusson,  1787. 


♦  <'opied  from  the  I!ec,  voL  ii  p.  310   and  compared 
ivitii  the  Author'i  MS, 


Session-house  within  the  Kirk  of  Ca- 
nongate,  the  twenty-second  day  of 
February,  one  thousand  seven  hun- 
dred and  eighty-seven  years. 

SEDERUNT  OF  THE  MANAGERS  OF  THE  KIRK 
AND  KIRK- YARD  FUNDS  OF  CANONGATE. 

Which  day,  the  treasurer  to  the  said 
funds  produced  a  letter  from  Mr.  Robert 
Burns,  of  date  the  sixth  current,  which 
was  read,  and  appointed  to  be  engrossed 
in  their  sederunt-book,  and  of  which  letter 
the  tenor  follows  :  "  To  the  Honourable 
Bailies  of  Canongate,  Edinburgh.  Gen- 
tlemen, I  am  sorry  to  be  told,  that  the  re- 
mains of  Robert  Fergusson,  the  so  justly 
celebrated  poet,  a  man  whose  talents,  for 
ages  to  come,  will  do  honour  to  our  Ca- 
ledonian name,  lie  in  your  church-yard, 
among  the  ignoble  dead,  unnoticed  and 
unknown. 

"  Some  memorial  to  direct  the  steps  of 
the  lovers  of  Scottish  Song,  when  they 
wish  to  shed  a  tear,  over  the  '  narrow 
house'  of  the  bard  who  is  no  more,  is 
surely  a  tribute  due  to  Fergusson's  me- 
mory ;  a  tribute  I  wish  to  have  the  ho- 
nour of  paying. 

"  I  petition  you,  then,  gentlemen,  to 
permit  me  to  lay  a  simple  stone  over  his 
revered  ashes,  to  remain  an  unalienable 
property  to  his  deathless  fame.  I  have 
the  honour  to  be,  Gentlemen,  your  very 
humble  servant,  (sic  subscribitur,) 

"  Robert  Burns." 

Thereafter  the  said  managers,  in  con- 
sideration of  the  laudable  and  disinterest- 
ed motion  of  Mr.  Burns,  and  the  propriety 
of  his  request,  did  and  hereby  do,  unani- 
mously, grant  power  and  liberty  to  the 
said  Robert  Burns  to  erect  a  headstone 
at  the  grave  of  the  said  Robert  Fergus- 
son,  and  to  keep  up  and  preserve  the 
same  to  his  memory  in  all  time  coming. 
Extracted  forth  of  the  records  of  the  ma 
nagers,  by 

William  Sprot,  Clerk. 


No.  XX. 
To 


MY  DEAR  SIR, 

You  may  think,  and  too  justly,  that 
I  am  a  selfish,  ungrateful  fellow,  having 


LETTERS. 


105 


received  so  many  repeated  instances  of 
kindness  from  you,  and  yet  never  putting 
pen  to  paper  to  say — thank  you;  but  if  you 
knew  what  a  devil  of  a  life  my  conscience 
has  led  me  on  that  account,  your  good 
heart  would  think  yourself  too  much 
avenged.  By  the  by,  there  is  nothing  in 
the  whole  frame  of  man  which  seems  to 
me  so  unaccountable  as  that  thing  called 
conscience.  Had  the  troublesome,  yelp- 
ing cur  powers  efficient  to  prevent  a  mis- 
chief, he  might  be  of  use  ;  but  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  business,  his  feeble  efforts 
are  to  the  workings  of  passion  as  the  in- 
fant frosts  of  an  autumnal  morning  to  the 
Unclouded  fervour  of  the  rising  sun:  and 
no  sooner  are  the  tumultuous  doings  of 
the  wicked  deed  over,  than,  amidst  the 
bitter  native  consequences  of  folly  in  the 
very  vortex  of  our  horrors,  up  starts  con- 
science, and  harrows  us  with  the  feelings 
of  the  d*****. 

I  have  enclosed  you,  by  way  of  expia- 
tion, some  verse  and  prose,  that  if  they 
merit  a  place  in  your  truly  entertaining 
miscellany,  you  are  welcome  to.  The 
prose  extract  is  literally  as  Mr.  Sprot 
sent  it  me. 

The  Inscription  of  the  stone  is  as  follows  : 

HERE  LIES 

ROBERT  FERGUSSON,  POET, 

Born,  September  5th,  1751— Died,  16th  October,  1774. 

Nosculptur'd  Marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 

''■  No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust ;" 
This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 

To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  Poet's  dust. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Stone  is  as  follows: 

"  By  special  grant  of  the  Managers  to 
Robert  Burns,  who  erected  this  stone, 
this  burial  place  is  to  remain  for  ever  sa- 
cred to  the  memory  of  Robert  Fergusson." 


No.  XXI. 
Extract  of  a  Letter  from 


8th  March,  1787. 

I  am  truly  happy  to  know  that  you 
have  found  a  friend  in  *  *  *  *  * ; 
his  patronage  of  you  does  him  great  ho- 
nour. He  is  truly  a  good  man;  by  far 
the  best  I  ever  knew,  or,   perhaps,  ever 


shall  know,  in  this  world.  But  I  must 
not  speak  all  I  think  of  him,  lest  1  should 
be  thought  partial. 

So  you  have  obtained  liberty  from  tbr> 
magistrates  to  erect  a  stone  over  Fer- 
gusson's  grave  ?  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  such 
things  have  been,  as  Shakspeare  says, 
"  in  the  olden  time  :" 

"  The  poet's  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown, 
He  ask'd  for  bread,  and  he  receiv'd  a  stone." 

It  is,  I  believe,  upon  poor  Butler's  tomb 
that  this  is  written.  But  how  many  bro- 
thers of  Parnassus,  as  well  as  poor  But- 
ler and  poor  Fergusson,  have  asked  for 
bread,  and  been  served  the  same  sauce ! 

The  magistrates  gave  you  liberty,  did 
they  ?    O  generous  magistrates !  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  celebrated  over  the  three  king- 
doms for  his  public  spirit,  gives  a  poor 
poet  liberty  to  raise  a  tomb  to  a  poor  poet's 
memory !  most  generous !  *  *  *  *  once 
upon  a  time  gave  that  same  poet  the 
mighty  sum  of  eighteen  pence  for  a  copy 
of  his  works.  But  then  it  must  be  con- 
sidered that  the  poet,  was  at  this  time  ab- 
solutely starving,  and  besought  his  aid 
with  all  the  earnestness  of  hunger;  and 
over  and  above,  he  received  a  *  *  *  * 
worth,  at  least  one  third  of  the  value,  in 
exchange,  but  which,  I  believe,  the  poet 
afterwards  very  ungratefully  expunged. 

Next  week  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you  in  Edinburgh ;  and  as  my 
stay  will  be  for  eight  or  ten  days,  I  wish 
you  or  *  *  *  *  would  take  a  snug  well- 
aired  bed-room  for  me,  where  I  may  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  over  a  morning 
cup  of  tea.  But,  b_v  all  accounts,  it  will  be  a 
matter  of  some  difficulty  to  see  you  at  all, 
unless  your  company  is  bespoke  a  week 
before-hand.  There  is  a  great  rumour 
here  concerning  your  great  intimacy  with 

the  Dutchess  of ,  and  other  ladies 

of  distinction.  I  am  really  told  that 
"  cards  to  invite  fly  by  thousands  each 
night ;"  and,  if  you  had  one,  I  suppose 
there  would  also  be  "bribes  to  your  old 
secretary."  It  seems  you  are  resolved  to 
make  hay  while  the  sun  shines,  and  avoid, 
if  possible,  the  fate  of  poor  Fergusson, 

*  *  *  *  *  Qucerenda  peevnia  primvm  est, 
virtus  post  nummos,  is  a  good  maxim  to 
thrive  by  ;  you  seemed  to  despise  it  while 
in  this  country ;  but  probably  some  phi- 
losopher in  Edinburgh  has  taught  you 
better  sense. 


106 


LETTERS. 


Pray,  are  you  yet  engraving  us  well  as 
printing? — Are  you  yet  seized 

"  With  itch  of  picture  in  the  front, 
With  bays  and  wicked  rhyme  upon't?" 

Bui  1  must  give  up  this  trifling,  and  at- 
tend to  matters  that  more  concern  myself; 
so,  as  the  Aberdeen  wit  says,  adieu  dryly, 
ive  sal  drink  phan  we  meet.* 


NO.  XXI. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  March  22,  1787. 

MADAM, 

I  read  your  letter  with  watery  eyes. 
A  little,  very  little  while  ago,  J  had  scarce 
a  friend  but  the  stubborn  pride  of  my  own 
bosom  ;  now  I  am  distinguished,  patronis- 
ed, befriended  by  you.  Your  friendly  ad- 
\  ices,  I  will  not  give  them  the  cold  name 
of  criticisms,  I  receive  with  reverence. 
I  have  made  some  small  alterations  in 
whal  I  before  bad  printed.  I  have  the 
advice  of  some  very  judicious  friends 
among  the  literati  here,"  but  with  them  I 
sometimes  find  it  necessary  to  claim  the 
privilege  of  thinking  for  myself.  The 
noble  Earl  of  Glencairn,  to  whom  I  owe 
more  than  to  any  man,  does  me  the  ho- 
nour of  giving  me  his  strictures  ;  his 
hints,  with  respect  to  impropriety  or  in- 
delicacy, I  follow  implicitly. 

You  kindly  interest  yourself  in  my  fu- 
ture views  and  prospects  :  there  I  can 
give  you  no  light  :— it  is  all 

"  Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll'd  together;  or  had  try'd  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound." 

The  appellation  of  a  Scottish  bard  is  by 
far  my  highest  pride  ;  to  continue  to  de- 
serve it,  is  my  most  exalted  ambition. 
Scottish  scenes  and  Scottish  story  are 
the  themes  I  could  wish  to  sing.  I  have 
no  dearer  aim  than  to  have  it  in  my  power, 
unplagued  with  the  routine  of  business 

*  The   above  extract  is  from  a  Letter  of  One  of  the 

ablest  of  on  rl'oct'scorre  |h indents,  which  contain  -nine 
interesting  anecdotes  of]''crgusson,  thai  we  should  have 
been  happy    to  have  inserted,  if  they  could  have  been 

authenticated.    The  writer  is  mistaken  in  sup 

the  magistrates  of  Edinburgh  had  any  share  in  the 

tran   anion    respecting  the  monument  creep  ,1   f.,,   |  ,, 

"i  ii  by  our  hard  ;  this,  it  is  evident,  pas  ed  bi  tween 
Burns  and  the  Kirk  Session  of  the  Canongate.  Neither 
at  Edinburgh  nor  any  where  else,  do  magistrates  usu- 
ally trouble  themselves  to  inquire  how  the  hou  e  ol  b 
l"""  )"" '  i  ifurnishcd,  or  how  hid  grave  is  adorned.   E. 


for  which,  heaven  knows  !  I  am  unfit 
enough,  to  make  leisurely  pilgrimao-es 
through  Caledonia  ;  to  sit  on  the  fields 
ol  her  battles  ;  to  wander  on  the  roman- 
tic banks  of  her  rivers  ;  and  to  muse  by 
the  stately  towers  or  venerable  ruins, 
once  the  honoured  abodes  of  her  heroes. 

But  these  arc  all  Utopian  thoughts  :  I 
have  dallied  long  enough  with  life  ;  'tis 
time  to  be  in  earnest.  I  have  a  fond,  an 
aged  mother  to  care  for  ;  and  some  other 
bosom  ties  perhaps  equally  tender. 

Where  the  individual  only  suffers  by 
the  consequences  of  his  own  thoughtless- 
ness, indolence,  or  folly,  he  may  be  ex- 
cusable ;  nay,  shining  abilities,  and  some 
of  the  nobler  virtues  may  half-sanctify  a 
heedless  character  :  but  where  God  and 
nature  have  intrusted  the  welfare  of  oth- 
ers to  his  care,  where  the  trust  is  sacred, 
and  the  ties  are  dear,  that  man  must  be 
far  gone  in  selfishness,  or  strangely  lost 
to  reflection,  whom  these  connexions  will 
not  rouse  to  exertion. 

I  guess  that  I  shall  clear  between  two 
and  three  hundred  pounds  by  my  author- 
ship :  with  that  sum  I  intend,  so  far  as  I 
may  be  said  to  have  any  intention,  to  re- 
turn to  my  old  acquaintance,  the  plough  ; 
and  if  I  can  meet  with  a  lease  by  winch 
I  can  live,  to  commence  farmer.  I  do  not 
intend  to  give  up  poetry  :  being  bred  to 
labour  secures  me  independence  ;  and  the 
muses  are  my  chief,  sometimes  have  been 
my  only  employment.  If  my  practice 
second  my  resolution,  I  shall  have  princi- 
pally at  heart  the  serious  business  of  life  ; 
but,  while  following  my  plough,  or  build- 
ing up  my  shocks,  I  shall  cast  a  leisure 
glance  to  that  dear,  that  only  feature  of 
my  character,  which  gave  me  the  notice 
of  my  country,  and  the  patronajre  of  a 
Wallace. 

Thus,  honoured  Madam,  T  have  given 
you  the  bard,  his  situation,  and  bis  views, 
native  as  they  are  in  his  own  bosom. 


No.  XXIII. 
TO  THE  SAME. 
Edinburgh,  15th  April,  1787 

MADAM, 

The  he  is  an  affectation  of  gratitude 
which  I  dislike.     The  periods  of  Johnson 


LETTERS. 


107 


and  the  pauses  of  Sterne,  may  hide  a  self- 
ish heart.  For  my  part,  Madam,  I  trust 
I  have  too  much  pride  for  servility,  and 
too  little  prudence. for  selfishness.  I  have 
this  moment  broken  open  your  letter  but 

"  Rude  am  I  in  speech, 
And  therefore  little  can  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself — 

so  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  any  fine 
speeches  and  hunted  figures.  I  shall  just 
lay  my  hand  on  my  heart,  and  say,  I  hope 
1  shall  ever  have  the  truest,  the  warmest, 
sense  of  your  goodness. 

1  come  abroad  in  print  for  certain  on 
Wednesday.  Your  orders  I  shall  punc- 
tually attend  to  ;  only,  by  the  way,  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  was  paid  before  for 
Dr.  Moore's  and  Miss  W.'s  copies,  through 
the  medium  of  Commissioner  Cochrane 
in  this  place  ;  but  that  we  can  settle  when 
I  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  you. 

Dr.  Smith*  was  just  gone  to  London 
the  morning  before  I  received  your  letter 
to  him. 


No.  XXIV. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  23d  Jlpril,  1787. 

I  received  the  books,  and  sent  the  one 
you  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  I  am  ill- 
skilled  in  beating  the  coverts  of  imagina- 
tion for  metaphors  of  gratitude.  I  thank 
you,  Sir,  for  the  honour  you  have  done 
me  ;  and  to  my  latest  hour  will  warmly 
remember  it.  To  be  highly  pleased  with 
your  book,  is  what  I  have  in  common 
with  the  world  ;  but  to  regard  these  vo- 
lumes as  a  mark  of  the  author's  friendly 
esteem,  is  a  still  more  supreme  gratifi- 
cation. 

I  leave  Edinburgh  in  the  course  of  ten 
davs  or  a  fortnight  ;  and,  after  a  few  pil- 
grimages over  some  of  the  classic  ground 
of  Caledonia,  Cowden  JCnotres,  Banks  of 
Yarrow,  Tweed,  fyc'.  I  shall  return  to 
my  rural  shades,  in  all  likelihood  never 
more  to  quit  them.  I  have  formed  many 
intimnries  and  friendships  here,  but  I  am 
afraid  they  are  all  of  too  tender  a  con- 
struction to  bear  carriage  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles.     To  the  rich,  the  great,  the 

*  Adam  Smith. 
U  2 


fashionable,  the  polite,  I  have  no  equiva- 
lent, to  oiler  ;  and  I  am  afraid  my  meteor 
appearance  will  by  no  means  entitle  me 
to  a  settled  correspondence  with  any  of 
you,  who  are  the  permanent  lights  of  ge- 
nius and  literature. 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to 
.Miss  \V.  If  once  this  tangent  flight  of 
mine  were  over,  and  I  were  returned  to  my 
wonted  leisurely  motion  in  my  old  circle, 
I  may  probably  endeavour  to  return  her 
poetic  compliment  in  kind. 


No.  XXV. 

EXTRACT  OF  A  LETTER  TO 
MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  30th  April,  1787. 
-Your  criticisms,  Madam,  I  un- 


derstand  very  well,  and  could  have  wish- 
ed to  have  pleased  you  better.  You  are 
right  in  your  guess  that  I  am  not  very 
amenable  to  counsel.  Poets,  much  my 
superiors,  have  so  flattered  those  who 
possessed  the  adventitious  qualities  of 
wealth  and  power  that  I  am  determined 
to  flatter  no  created  being  either  in  prose 
or  verse. 

I  set  as  little  by  princes,  lords,  clergy, 
critics,  &c.  as  all  these  respective  gentry 
do  by  my  hardship.  I  know  what  1  may 
expect  from  the  world  by  and  by — illiberal 
abuse,  and  perhaps  contemptuous  neglect. 

I  am  happy,  Madam,  that  some  of  my 
own  favourite  pieces  are  distinguished 
by  your  particular  approbation.  For  my 
Dream,  which  has  unfortunately  incurred 
your  loyal  displeasure,  I  hope  in  four 
weeks,  or  less,  to  have  the  honour  of 
appearing  at  Dunlop,  in  its  defence,  in 
person. 


No.  XXVI. 

TO  THE  REV.  DR.  HUGH  BLAIR. 

Lawn-Market,  Edinburgh,  3d  May,  1787. 

REVEREND  and  much-respected  sir, 

I  leave  Edinburgh  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, but  could  not  go  without  troubling 
you  with   half  a  line  sincerely  to  thank 


108 


LETTERS. 


you  for  the  kindness,  patronage,  and 
friendship  you  have  shown  me.  I  often 
feU  the  embarrassment  of  my  singular 
situation;  drawn  forth  from  the  veriest 
shades  of  life  to  the  glare  of  remark;  and 
honoured  by  the  notice  of  those  illustri- 
ous names  of  my  country,  whose  works, 
while  they  are  applauded  to  the  end  of 
time,  will  ever  instruct  and  mend  the 
heart.  However  the  meteor-like  novelty 
of  my  appearance  in  the  world  might  at- 
tract notice,  and  honour  me  with  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  permanent  lights  of 
genius  and  literature,  those  who  are  tru- 
ly benefactors  of  the  immortal  nature  of 
man;  I  knew  very  well  that  my  utmost 
merit  was  far  unequal  to  the  task  of  pre- 
serving that  character  when  once  the 
novelty  was  over.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind,  that  abuse,  or  almost  even  neglect, 
will  not  surprise  me  in  my  quarters. 

I  have  sent  you  a  proof  impression  of 
Beugo's  work  for  me,  done  on  Indian  pa- 
per, as  a  trifling  but  sincere  testimony 
with  what  heart-warm  gratitude  I  am,&c. 


No.  XXVII. 
FROM  DR.  BLAIR. 

Argyle-Square,  Edinburgh,  4th  May. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  was  favoured  this  forenoon  with 
your  very  obliging  letter,  together  with 
an  impression  of  your  portrait,  for  which 
I  return  you  my  best  thanks.  The  suc- 
cess you  have  met  with  I  do  not  think 
was  beyond  your  merits;  and  if  I  have 
had  any  small  hand  in  contributing  to  it, 
it  gives  me  great  pleasure.  I  know  no 
way  in  which  literary  persons,  who  are 
advanced  in  years,  can  do  more  service 
to  the  world,  than  in  forwarding  the  ef- 
forts of  rising  genius,  or  bringing  forth 
unknown  merit  from  obscurity.  I  was 
the  first  person  who  brought  out  to  the 
notice  of  the  world,  the  poems  of  Ossian  : 
first,  by  the  Fragments  of,  indent  Poetry 
which  I  published,  and  afterwards  by  my 
setting  on  foot  the  undertaking  for  col- 
lecting and  publishing  the  Works  of  Os- 
sian  :  and  I  have  always  considered  this 
as  a  meritorious  action  of  my  life. 

Your  situation,  as  you  say,  was  indeed 
very  singular ;  and,  in  being  brought  out 


all  at  once  from  the  shades  of  deepest 
privacy,  to  so  greal  a  share  of  public  no- 
tice and  observation,  you  had  to  stand  a  se- 
vere trial.  1  am  happy  t  hat  you  have  stood 
it  so  well;  and,  as  far  as  1  have  known 
or  heard,  though  in  the  midst  of  many 
•temptations,  without  reproach  to  your 
character  and  behaviour. 

You  are  now,  I  presume,  to  retire  to  a 
more  -private  walk  of  life ;  and,  I  trust, 
will  conduct  yourself  there,  with  indus- 
try, prudence,  and  honour.  You  have 
laid  the  foundation  for  just  public  esteem. 
In  the  midst  of  those  employments,  which 
your  situation  will  render  proper,  you  will 
not,  I  hope,  neglect  to  promote  that  es- 
teem, by  cultivating  your  genius,  and  at- 
tending to  such  productions  of  it  as  may 
raise  your  character  still  higher.  At  the 
same  time,  be  not  in  too  great  a  haste  to 
come  forward.  Take  time  and  leisure  to 
improve  and  mature  your  talents;  for  on 
any  second  production  you  give  the  world, 
your  fate,  as  a  poet,  will  very  much  de- 
pend. There  is,  no  doubt,  a  gloss  of  no- 
velty which  time  wears  off.  As  you  very 
properly  hint  yourself,  you  are  not  to  be 
surprised,  if,  in  your  rural  retreat,  you  do 
not  find  yourself  surrounded  with  that 
glare  of  notice  and  applause  which  here 
shone  upon  you.  No  man  can  be  a  good 
poet,  without  being  somewhat  of  a  philo- 
sopher. He  must  lay  his  account,  that 
any  one,  who  exposes  himself  to  public 
observation,  will  occasionally  meet  with 
the  attacks  of  illiberal  censure,  which  it 
is  always  best  to  overlook  and  despise. 
He  will  be  inclined  sometimes  to  court 
retreat,  and  to  disappear  from  public 
view.  He  will  not  affect  to  shine  always, 
that  he  may  at  proper  seasons  come  forth 
with  more  advantage  and  energy.  He 
will  not  think  himself  neglected,  if  he  be 
not  always  praised.  I  have  taken  the 
liberty,  you  see,  of  an  old  man,  to  give 
advice  and  make  reflections  which  your 
own  good  sense  will,  I  dare  say,  render 
unnecessary. 

As  you  mention  your  being  just  about 
to  leave  town,  you  are  going,  I  should 
suppose,  to  Dumfries-shire,  to  look  at 
some  of  Mr.  Miller's  farms.  I  heartily 
wish  the  offers  to  be  made  you  there  may 
answer,  as  I  am  persuaded  you  will  not 
easily  find  a  more  generous  and  better- 
hearted  proprietor  tolive  under,  than  Mr. 
Miller.  When  you  return,  if  you  come 
this  way,  T  will  be  happy  to  see  you,  and 
to  know  concerning  your  future  plans  of 


LETTERS. 


109 


life.  You  will  find  me  by  the  22d  of  this 
month,  not  in  my  house  in  Argyle-square, 
but  at  :i  counl  ry-house  at  Restalrig,  about 
a  mile  east  from  Edinburgh,  near  the 
Musselburgh  mad.  Wishing  you  all  suc- 
cess and  prosperity,  I  am,  with  real  re- 
gard and  esteem, 

Dear  Sir, 

Yours  sincerely, 
HUGH  BLAIR. 


No.  XXVIII. 
FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

Clifford-Street,  May,  23,  1787. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  your  letter  by 
Mr.  Creech,  and  soon  after  he  sent  me 
the  new  edition  of  your  poems.  You  seem 
to  think  it  incumbent  on  you  to  send  to 
each  subscriber  a  number  of  copies  pro- 
portionate to  his  subscription-money;  but 
you  may  depend  upon  it,  few  subscribers 
expect  more  than  one  copy,  whatever  they 
subscribed.  I  must  inform  you,  however, 
that  I  took  twelve  copies  for  those  sub- 
scribers for  whose  money  you  were  so 
accurate  as  to  send  me  a  receipt ;  and 
Lord  Eglinton  told  me  he  had  sent  for 
six  copies  for  himself,  as  he  wished  to 
give  five  of  them  as  presents. 

Some  of  the  poems  you  have  added  in 
this  last  edition  are  very  beautiful,  par- 
ticularly the  Winter  Might,  the  Address 
to  Edinburgh,  Green  grow  the  Rashes, 
and  the  two  songs  immediately  following; 
the  latter  of  which  is  exquisite.  By  the 
way,  I  imagine  you  have  a  peculiar  talent 
for  such  compositions,  which  you  ought 
to  indulge.*  No  kind  of  poetry  demands 
more  delicacy  or  higher  polishing.  Ho- 
race is  more  admired  on  account  of  his 
Odes  than  all  his  other  writings.  But  no- 
thing now  added  is  equal  to  your  Vision, 
and  Colter 's  Saturday  Night.  Tn  these 
are  united  fine  imagery,  natural  and  pa- 
thetic description,  with  sublimity  of  lan- 
guage and  thought.  It  is  evident  that 
you  already  possess  a  great  variety  of  ex- 
pression and  command  of  the  English 
language,  you  ought,  therefore  to  deal 
more  sparingly  for  the  future  in  the  pro- 
vincial dialect :  why  should  you,  by  using 

*  The  poems  subsequently  composed  will  bear  testi- 
mony to  the  accuracy  of  Dr.  .Moore's  judgment.      E. 


that,  limit  the  number  of  your  admirers  to 
those  who  understand  the  Scottish,  when 
you  can  extend  it  to  all  persons  of  taste 
who  understand  the  English  language? 
[amy  opinion  you  should  plan  some  larger 
work  than  any  you  have  as  yet  attempt- 
ed. I  mean,  reflect  upon  some  prope 
subject,  and  arrange  the  plan  in  your 
mind,  without  beginning  to  execute  any 
part  of  it  till  you  have  studied  most  of  the 
best  English  poets,  and  read  a  little  more 
of  history.  The  Greek  and  Roman  sto- 
ries you  can  read  in  some  abridgment, 
and  soon  become  master  of  the  most  bril- 
liant facts,  which  must  highly  delight  a 
poetical  mind.  You  should  also,  and  very 
soon  may,  become  master  of  the  heathen 
mythology,  to  which  there  are  everlasting 
allusions  in  all  the  poets,  and  which  in  it- 
self is  charmingly  fanciful.  What  will 
require  to  be  studied  with  more  attention, 
is  modern  history ;  that  is,  the  history  of 
France  and  Great  Britain,  from  the  be- 
ginning of  Henry  the  Seventh's  reign.  I 
know  very  well  you  have  a  mind  capable 
of  attaining  knowledge  by  a  shorter  pro- 
cess than  is  commonly  used,  and  I  am  cer- 
tain you  are  capable  of  making  a  better 
use  of  it,  when  attained,  than  is  general- 
ly done. 

I  beg  you  will  not  give  yourself  the 
trouble  of  writing  to  me  when  it  is  incon- 
venient, and  make  no  apology  when  you 
do  write,  for  having  postponed  it ;  be  as- 
sured of  this,  however,  that  I  shall  always 
be  happy  to  hear  from  you.     I  think  my 

friend,  Mr. told  me  that  you  had 

some  poems  in  manuscript  by  you,  of  a 
satirical  and  humorous  nature  (in  which, 
by  the  way,  I  think  you  very  strong,) 
which  your  prudent  friends  prevailed  on 
you  to  omit ;  particularly  one  called  Some- 
body's Confession ;  if  you  will  intrust  me 
with  a  sight  of  any  of  these,  I  will  pawn 
my  word  to  give  no  copies,  and  will  be 
obliged  to  you  for  a  perusal  of  them. 

I  understand  you  intend  to  take  a  farm, 
and  make  the  useful  and  respectable  busi- 
ness "of  husbandry  your  chief  occupation  ; 
this,  I  hope,  will  not  prevent  your  making 
occasional  addresses  to  the  nine  ladies 
who  have  shown  you  such  favour,  one  of 
whom  visited  you  in  the  aulil  day  biggin. 
Virgil,  before  you,  proved  to  the  world, 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  business  of 
husbandry  inimical  to  poetry  ;  and  I  sin- 
cerely hope  that  you  may  afford  an  ex- 
ample of  a  good  poet  being  a  successful 
farmer.   I  fear  it  will  not  bo  in  my  power 


110 


LETTERS. 


to  visil  Scotland  this  season ;  when  I  do, 
I'll  endeavour  to  find  you  out,  for  I  hear- 
tily wish  to  see  and  converse  with  you. 
If  ever  your  occasions  .call  you  to  this 
place,  I  make  no  doubt  of  your  paying  me 
a  visit,  and  you  may  depend  on  a  very 
cordial  welcome  from  this  family. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  friend  and  obedient  servant, 

J.  MOORE. 


No.  XXIX. 
TO  MR.  WALKER, 

BLAIR  OF  ATH0LE. 

Inverness,  5th  September,  1787. 

M?   DEAR  SIR, 

I  have  just  time  to  write  the  forego- 
ing,* and  to  tell  you  that  it  was  (at  least 
most  part  of  it,)  the  effusion  of  a  half- 
hour  I  spent  at  Bruar.  I  do  not  mean  it 
was  t .:  tt  mport ,  for  1  have  endeavoured  to 

brush  it  up  as  well  as  Mr.  N 's  chat, 

and  the  jogging  of  the  chaise,  would  al- 
low. It  eases  my  heart  a  good  deal,  as 
rhyme  is  the  coin  with  which  a  poet  pays 
his  debts  of  honour  or  gratitude.  What 
I  owe  to  the  noble  family  of  Athole,  of 
the  first  kind,  I  shall  ever  proudly  boast; 
what  I  owe  of  the  last,  so  help  me  God  in 
my  hour  of  need !  I  shall  never  forget. 

The  "little  angel  band  !"  I  declare  I 
prayed  for  them  very  sincerely  to-day  at 
the  Fall  of  Fyers.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  fine  family-piece  I  saw  at  Blair;  the 
amiaMe,  the  truly  noble  Dutchess,  with 
her  smiling  little  seraph  in  her  lap,  at  the 
headofthe table;  the lo^  ely "olive plants," 
as  the  Hebrew  bard  finely  says,  round 
the  happy  mother;  the    beautiful  Mrs. 

G ;  the  lovely,  sweet  Miss  C.,   &c. 

I  wish  T  had  the  powers  of  Guido  to  do 
them  justice.  My  Lord  Duke's  kind  hos- 
pitality— markedly  kind  indeed  !  Mr.  G. 
of  F — 's  charms  of  conversal  ion — Sir  W. 

M 's  friendship.     In  short    the  recol- 

on  of  all  that  polite,  agreeable  com- 
pany, raises  an  honest  glow  in  my  bosom. 

*  The  humble  Petition  of  Bruar- Water  to  the  Duke 
of  Athole.     Sec  Poems,  p.  72. 


No.  XXX. 
TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 
Edinburgh,  11th  Sept.  1787. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 

I  arrived  here  safe  yesterday  even- 
ing, after  a  tour  of  twenty-two  days,  and 
travelling  near  six  hundred  miles,  wind- 
ings included.  My  farthest  stretch  was 
about  ten  miles  beyond  Inverness.  I  went 
through  the  heart  of  the  Highlands,  by 
Crieff,  Taymouth,  the  famous  seat  of  the 
Lord  Breadalbane,  down  the  Tay,  among 
cascades  and  Druidical  circles  of  stones, 
to  Dunkeld,  a  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Athole; 
thence  cross  Tay,  and  up  one  of  his  tri- 
butary streams  to  Blair  of  Athole,  ano- 
ther of  the  Duke's  seats,  where  I  had  the 
honour  of  spending  nearly  two  days  with 
his  Grace  and  family  ;  thence  many  miles 
through  a  wild  country,  among  cliffs  gray 
with  eternal  snows,  and  gloomy  savage 
glens,  till  I  crossed  Spey  and  went  down 
the  stream  through  Strathspey,  so  famous 
in  Scottish  music,  Badenoch,  &c.  till  I 
reached  Grant  Castle,  where  I  spent  half 
a  day  with  Sir  James  Grant  and  family  ; 
and  then  crossed  the  country  for  Fort 
George,  but  called  by  the  way  at  Caw- 
dor, the  ancient,  seat,  of  Macbeth;  there 
I  saw  the  identical  bed  in  which,  tradi- 
tion says,  King  Duncan  was  murdered ; 
lastly,  from  Fort  George  to  Inverness. 

I  returned  by  the  coast,  through  Nairn, 
Forres,  and  so  on,  to  Aberdeen  ;  thence 
to  Stonehive,  where  James  Burness,  from 
Montrose,  met  me,  by  appointment.  I 
spent  two  days  among  our  relations,  and 
found  our  aunts,  Jean  and  Isabel,  still 
alive,  and  hale  old  women.  John  Caird, 
though  born  the  same  year  with  our  fa- 
ther, walks  as  vigorously  as  I  can:  they 
have  had  several  letters  from  his  son  in 
New-York.  William  Brand  is  likewise 
a  stout  old  fellow  ;  but  further  particulars 
1  delay  till  I  see  you,  which  will  be  in 
two  or  three  weeks.  The  rest  of  my 
stages  are  not  worth  rehearsing;  warm 
as  I  was  from  Ossian's  country,  where 
I  had  seen  his  "very  grave,  what  cared  1 
for  fishing  towns  or  fertile  carses  ?  I 
slept  at  the  famous  Brodie  of  Brodie's 
one  night,  and  dined  at  Gordon  Castle 
next  day  with  the  Duke,  Dutchess,  ana 
family.  I  am  thinking  to  cause  my  old 
marc  to  meet  me,  by  means  of  John  Ro- 
nald, at  Glasgow  :  but  you  shall  hear  far- 
ther from  me  before  I  leave  Edinburgh 
My  duty,  and  many  compliments,  from 


LETTERS. 


111 


the  north,  to  my  mother,  and  my  hrotherly 
compliments  to  the  rest.  I  have  been 
trying  for  a  birth  for  William,  but  am  not 
likely  to  be  successful. — Farewell! 


No.  XXXI. 
FROM  MR.  R*****. 
Ochtertyre,  22d  October,  1 787. 

SIR, 

'Twas  only  yesterday  I  got  Colonel 
Edmondstoune's  answer,  that  neither  the 
words  of  Down  the  Burn  Davie,  nor  Dain- 
lie  Davie,  (I  forgot  which  you  mentioned,) 
were  written  by  Colonel  G.  Crawford. 
Next  time  I  meet  him,  I  will  inquire 
about  his  cousin's  poetical  talents. 

Enclosed  are  the  inscriptions  you  re- 
quested, and  a  letter  to  Mr.  Young,  whose 
company  and  musical  talents  will,  I  am 
persuaded,  be  a  feast  to  you.*     Nobody 

*  These  Inscriptions,  so  much  admired  by  Burns,  are 
as  follows: 

WRITTEN  IN  1708. 

FOR  THE    SALIGTtTM*    AT    OCHTERTVRE. 

Salubritatis  voluptatisque  causa, 

IIoc  Salictum, 

Paludem  olim  infidam, 

Mini  meisque  desicco  et  exorno. 

Hie,  procul  negotiis  strepituque, 

Innocuis  deliciis 

Silvulas  inter  nascentes  reptandi, 

Apiumque  labores  suspiciendi, 

Fruor. 

Hie,  si  faxit  Deus  opt.  max. 

Prope  liunc  fontem  pellucidum, 

Cum  quodam  juventutie  amico  superstite, 

Sa>pe  conquiescam,  senex, 

Contentus  modicis,  meoque  tetus! 

Sin  alitor — 

iEvique  paululum  snpersit, 

Vos  silvulie,  et  amici, 

Caiteraque  amoena, 

Valete,  diuque  Istamini! 

ENGLISHED. 

To  improve  both  air  and  soil, 

I  drain  and  decorate  this  planta'.ion  of  willows, 

Which  was  lately  an  unprofitable  morass. 

Here,  far  from  noise  and  strife, 

I  love  to  wander, 

Now  fondly  marking  the  progress  of  my  trees, 

Now  studying  the  bee,  its  arts  and  manners. 

Here,  if  it  pleases  Almighty  God, 

May  I  often  rest  in  the  evening  of  life, 

Near  that  transparent  fountain, 

With  some  surviving  friend  of  my  youth  ; 

Salictum— Grove  of  Willows.  Willow-ground. 


can  give  you  better  hints,  as  to  your  pre- 
sent plan  than  he.  Receive  also  Ome- 
ron  Cameron,  which  seemed  to  make 
such  a  deep  impression  on  your  imagina- 
tion, that  1  am  not  without  hopes  it  will 
beget  something  to  delight  the  public  in 
due  time  :  and,  no  doubt,  the  circumstan- 
ces of  this  little  tale  might  be  varied  or 
extended,  so  as  to  make  part  of  a  pasto- 
ral comedy.  Age  or  wounds  might  have 
kept  Omeron  at  home,  whilst  his  coun- 
trymen were  in  the  field.  His  station 
may  be  somewhat  varied,  without  losing 
his  simplicity  and  kindness.  *  *  *  A 
group  of  characters,  male  and  female,  con- 
nected  with  the  plot,  might  be  formed 
from  his  family  or  some  neighbouring  one 
of  rank.  It  is  not  indispensable  that  the 
guest  should  be  a  man  of  high  station ; 
nor  is  the  political  quarrel  in  which  he 
is  engaged,  of  much  importance,  unless 
to  call  forth  the  exercise  of  generosity 
and  faithfulness,  grafted  on  patriarchal 
hospitality.  To  introduce  state-affairs, 
would  raise  the  style  above  comedy; 
though  a  small  spice  of  them  would  sea- 
son the  converse  of  swains.  Upon  this 
head  I  cannot  say  more  than  to  recom- 
mend the  study  of  the  character  of  Eu- 
maeus  in  the  Odyssey,  which,  in  Mr.  Pope's 
translation,  is  an  exquisite  and  invaluable 
drawing  from  nature,  that  would  suit 
some  of  our  country  Elders  of  the  pre- 
sent day. 

There  must  be  love  in  the  plot,  and  a 
happy  discovery ;  and  peace  and  pardon 
may  be  the  reward  of  hospitality,  and  ho- 

Contented  with  a  competency, 

And  happy  with  my  lot. 
If  \  ain  these  humble  wishes, 
And  life  draws  near  a  close, 

Ye  trees  and  friends, 

And  whatever  else  is  dear, 

Farewell !  and  long  may  ye  flourish 


ABOVE  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

WRITTEN   IN  1775. 

Mihi  meisque  utinam  conting 

Prope  Taichi  marginein, 

Avito  in  Agello, 

Bene  vivere  fausteque  mori  I 

ENGLISHED. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Teith, 

In  the  small  but  sweet  inheritance 

Of  my  fathers, 

May  I  and  mine  live  in  peace, 

And  die  in  joyful  hope  ! 

These  inscriptions,  and  the  translations,  are  in  the 
hand  writing  of  Mr.  Ramsay. 


112 


LETTERS. 


nest  attachment  to  misguided  principles. 
When  you  have  once  thought  of  a  plot, 
and  brought  the  story  into  form,  Doctor 
Blacklock,  or  Mr.  II.  Mackenzie,  may  be 
useful  in  dividing  it  into  acts  and  scenes ; 
for  in  these  matters  one  must  pay  some 
attention  to  certain  rules  of  the  drama. 
These  you  could  afterwards  fill  up  at  your 
leisure.  But,  whilst  I  presume  to  give  a 
few  well-meant  hints,  let  me  advise  you 
to  study  the  spirit  of  my  namesake's  dia- 
logue,* which  is  natural  without  being 
low  ;  and,  under  the  trammels  of  verse,  is 
such  as  country-people,  in  these  situa- 
tions, speak  every  day.  You  have  only 
to  bring  down  your  strain  a  very  little.  A 
great,  plan,  such  as  this,  would  concentre 
all  your  ideas,  which  facilitates  the  execu- 
tion, and  makes  it  a  part  of  one's  pleasure. 

I  approve  of  your  plan  of  retiring  from 
din  and  dissipation  to  a  farm  of  very  mo- 
derate size,  sufficient  to  find  exercise  for 
mind  and  body,  but  not  so  great  as  to  ab- 
sorb better  things.  And  if  some  intellec- 
tual pursuit  be  well  chosen  and  steadily 
pursued,  it  will  be  more  lucrative  than 
most  farms,  in  this  age  of  rapid  improve- 
ment. 

Upon  this  subject,  as  your  well-wisher 
and  admirer,  permit  me  to  go  a  step  fur- 
ther. Let  those  bright  talents  which  the 
Almighty  has  bestowed  on  you,  be  hence- 
forth employed  to  the  noble  purpose  of 
supporting  the  cause  of  truth  and  virtue. 
An  imagination  so  varied  and  forcible  as 
yours,  may  do  this  in  many  different 
modes  :  nor  is  it  necessary  to  be  always 
serious,  which  you  have  to  good  purpose  ; 
good  morals  may  be  recommended  in  a 
comedy,  or  even  in  a  song.  Great  allow- 
ances are  due  to  the  heat  and  inexperi- 
ence of  youth  ; — and  few  poets  can  boast, 
like  Thomson,  of  never  having  written  a 
line,  which,  dying,  they  would  wish  to 
blot.  In  particular  I  wish  you  to  keep 
clear  of  the  thorny  walks  of  satire,  which 
makes  a  man  a  hundred  enemies  for  one 
friend,  and  is  doubly  dangerous  when  one 
is  supposed  to  extend  the  slips  and  weak- 
nesses of  individuals  to  their  sect  or  par- 
1v.  About  modes  of  faith,  serious  and 
excellent  men  have  always  differed;  and 
there  are  certain  curious  questions,  which 
may  afford  scope  to  men  of  metaphysical 
heads,  but  seldom  mend  the  heart  or  tem- 
per. Whilst  these  points  are  beyond  hu- 
man ken,  it  is  sufficient  that  all  our  sects 

*  Allan  Ramsay,  in  the  Gentle  Shepherd.        E. 


concur  in  their  views  of  morals.     You 
will  forgive  me  for  these  hints. 

Well !  what  think  you  of  good  lady 
Clackmannan  ?*  It  is  a  pity  she  is  so 
deaf,  and  speaks  so  indistinctly.  Her 
house  is  a  specimen  of  the  mansions  of 
our  gentry  of  the  last  age,  when  hospi- 
tality and  elevation  of  mind  were  conspi- 
cuous amidst  plain  fare  and  plain  furni- 
ture. I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  at 
times,  if  it  were  no  more  than  to  show 
that  you  take  the  effusions  of  an  obscure 
man  like  me  in  good  part.  I  beg  my  best 
respects  to  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blacklock. j 

And  am,  Sir, 
Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 
J.  RAMSAY. 

*  Mrs.  Bruce  of  Clackmannan.     E. 
jTALE  OF  OMERON  CAMERON. 

In  one  of  the  wars  betwixt  the  crown  of  Scotland 
and  the  Lords  of  the  Isles,  Alexander  Stewart,  Earl  of 
Mar  (a  distinguished  character  in  the  fifteenth  centu- 
ry,) and  Donald  Stewart,  Earl  of  Caithness,  had  the 
command  of  the  royal  army.  They  marched  into 
Lochaber,  with  a  view 'of  attacking  a  body  of  the 
M'Donalds,  commanded  by  Donald  Iialloch,  and  posted 
upon  an  arm  of  the  sea  which  intersects  that  country. 
Having  timely  intelligence  of  their  approach,  the  insur- 
gents got  off  precipitately  to  the  opposite  shore  in  their  , 
eurraghs,  or  boats  covered  with  skins.  The  king's 
troops  encamped  in  full  security  ;  but  the  M'Donalds, 
returning  about  midnight,  surprised  them,  killed  the 
Earl  of  Caithness,  and  destroyed  or  dispersed  the  whole 
army. 

The  Earl  of  Mar  escaped  in  the  dark,  without  any 
attendants,  and  made  for  the  more  hilly  part  of  the 
country.  In  the  course  of  his  flight  he  came  to  the  house 
of  a  poor  man,  whose  name  was  Omeron  Cameron. 
The  landlord  welcomed  his  guest  with  the  utmost  kind- 
ness ;  but,  as  there  was  no  meat  in  the  house,  he  told 
his  wife  he  would  directly  kill  Maol  Jidhar,*  to  feed  the 
stranger.  "Kill  our  only  cow  !"said  she,  "our  own  and 
our  little  children's  principal  support!"  More  attentive, 
however,  to  the  present  call  tor  hospitality  than  to  the 
remonstrances  of  hi.;  wife,  or  the  future  exigencies  of 
his  family,  he  killed  the  cow.  The  best  and  tenderest 
parts  were  immediately  roasted  before  the  fire,  and 
plenty  of  innirich,  or  Highland  soup,  prepared  to  con- 
clude their  meal.  The  whole  family,  and  their  guest 
ate  heartily,  and  the  evening  was  spent,  as  usual,  in 
telling  tales  and  singing  songs  beside  a  cheerful  fire. 
Bed-time  came;  Omeron  brushed  the  hearth,  spread  the 
cow-hide  upon  it,  and  desired  the  stranger  to  lie  down. 
The  earl  wrapped  his  plaid  about  him,  and  slept  sound- 
ly on  the  hide,  whilst  the  family  betook  themselves  to 
rest  in  a  corner  of  the  same  room. 

Next  morning  they  had  a  plentiful  breakfast,  and  at 
his  departure  his  guest  asked  Cameron,  if  he  knew 
whom  he  had  entertained'?  "  You  may  probably," 
answered  he,  "  be  one  of  the  king's  officers  ;  but  who- 
ever you  are,  you  came  here  in  distress,  and  here  it 

*  Maol  Odhar,  i.  c.  the  brown,  hummilcow. 


LETTERS. 


113 


No.  XXXII. 
FROM  MR.  J.  RAMSAY, 

TO    THE 

REVEREND  W.  YOUNG,  AT 
ERSKINE. 

Ochtertyre,  22d  October,  1787. 

DEAR  SIR, 

Allow  me  to  introduce  Mr.  Burns, 
whose  poems,  I  dare  say,  have  given  you 
much  pleasure.  Upon  a  personal  ac- 
quaintance, I  doubt  not,  you  will  relish 
the  man  as  much  as  his  works,  in  which 
there  is  a  rich  vein  of  intellectual  ore. 
He  has  heard  some  of  our  Highland  Lu- 
inags  or  songs  played,  which  delighted 
him  so  much  that  he  has  made  words  to 
one  or  two  of  them,  which  will  render 
these  more  popular.  As  he  has  thought 
of  being  in  your  quarter,  I  am  persuaded 
you  will  not  think  it  labour  lost  to  indulge 
the  poet  of  nature  with  a  sample  of  those 
sweet,  artless  melodies,  which  only  want 
to  be  married  (in  Milton's  phrase)  to  con- 
genial words.  I  wish  we  could  con- 
jure up  the  ghost  of  Joseph  M'D.  to  in- 
fuse into  our  bard  a  portion  of  his  enthu- 
siasm for  those  neglected  airs,  which  do 
not  suit  the  fastidious  musicians  of  the 
present  hour.  But  if  it  be  true  that  Co- 
was  my  duty  to  protect  you.  To  what  my  cottage  af- 
forded you  was  most  welcome."  "  Your  guest,  then," 
replied  the  other,  "  is  the  Earl  of  Mar ;  and  if  hereafter 
you  fall  into  any  misfortune,  fail  not  to  come  to  the 
castle  of  Kildrummie.''  "  My  blessing  be  with  you  ! 
noble  stranger,"  said  Omeron  ;  "If  1  am  ever  in  dis- 
tress you  shall  soon  see  me." 

The  Royal  army  was  soon  after  re- assembled,  and 
the  insurgents  finding  themselves  unable  to  make  head 
against  it,  dispersed.  The  M'Donalds,  however,  got 
notice  that  Omeron  had  been  the  Earl' s  host,  and  forced 
him  to  fly  the  country.  He  came  with  his  wife  and 
children  to  the  gate  of  Kildrummie  castle,  and  required 
admittance  with  a  confidence  which  hardly  correspond- 
ed with  his  habit  and  appearance.  The  porter  told  him 
rudely,  his  lordship  was  at  dinner,  and  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed. He  became  noisy  and  importunate  :  at  last  his 
name  was  announced.  Upon  hearing  that  it  was  Omeron 
<  'ameron,  the  Earl  started  from  his  seat,  and  is  said  to 
have  exclaimed  in  a  kind  of  poetical  stanza,  ''  I  was  a 
night  in  his  house,  and  fared  most  plentifully  ;  but  naked 
of  clothes  was  my  bed.  Omeron  from  Breugach  is  an 
excellent  fellow."  He  was  introduced  into  the  great 
hall,  and  received  with  the  welcome  he  deserved. 
Upon  hearing  how  he  had  been  treated,  the  Karl  gave 
him  a  four  merk  land  near  the  castle ;  and  it  is  said 
there  arc  still  a  number  of  Oamerons  descended  of  this 
Highland  Eumasus. 


relli  (whom  I  looked  on  as  the  Homer  of 
music)  is  out  of  date,  it  is  no  proof  of  their 
taste  ; — this,  however,  is  going  out  of  my 
province.  You  can  show  Mr.  Burns  the 
manner  of  singing  the  same  Luinags  ; 
and,  if  he  can  humour  it  in  words,  1  do 
not  despair  of  seeing  one  of  them  sung 
upon  the  stage,  in  the  original  style, 
round  a  napkin. 

I  am  very  sorry  we  are  likely  to  meet 
so  seldom  in  this  neighbourhood.  It  is  one 
of  the  greatest  drawbacks  that  attends 
obscurity,  that  one  has  so  few  opportu- 
nities of  cultivating  acquaintances  at  a 
distance.  I  hope,  however,  some  time 
or  other  to  have  the  pleasure  of  beating 
up  your  quarters  at  Erskine,  and  of  haul- 
ing you  away  to  Paisley,  &c. ;  meanwhile 
I  beg  to  be  remembered  to  Messrs.  Boog 
and  Mylne. 

If  Mr.  B.  goes  by ,  give  him  a  bil- 
let on  our  friend  Mr.  Stuart,  who,  I  pre- 
sume, does  not  dread  the  frowns  of  his 
diocesan. 

I  am,  Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant 
J.  RAMSAY. 


No.  XXXIII. 
FROM  MR.  RAMSAY 

TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 
Ochtertyre,  October  27,  1787. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  received  yours  by  Mr.  Burns,  and 
give  you  many  thanks  for  giving  me  an 
opportunity  of  conversing  with  a  man  of 
his  calibre.  He  will,  I  doubt  not,  let  you 
know  what  passed  between  us  on  the  sub- 
ject of  my  hints,  to  which  I  have  made 
additions  in  a  letter  I  sent  him  t'other 
day  to  your  care. 


You  may  tell  Mr.  Burns,  when  you  see 
him,  that  Colonel  Edmondstoune  told  me 
t'other  day,  that  his  cousin,  Colonel 
George  Crawford,  was  no  poet,  but  a 
great  singer  of  songs;  but  that  his  eldest 
brother  Robert  (by  a  former  mqrriacfo) 
had  a  great  turn  that  way,  having  writ- 
ten the  words  of  The  Bush  aboon  Tra- 
quair  and  Twecdsidc.     That  the  Mary  to 


114 


LETTERS. 


whom  it  was  addressed  was  Mary  Stew- 
art, of  the  Castlemilk  family,  afterwards 
wife  of  Mr.  John  Relches.  The  Colonel 
never  saw  Robert  Crawford,  though  he 
was  at  his  burial  fifty-five  years  ago. 
He  was  a  pretty  young  man,  and  had 
lived  long  in  France.  Lady  Ankervillc 
is  his  niece,  and  may  know  more  of  his 
poetical  vein.  An  epitaph-monger  like 
me  might  moralize  upon  the  vanity  of 
life,  and  the  vanity  of  those  sweet  effu- 
sions. But  I  have  hardly  room  to  offer 
my  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Blacklock, 
and  am, 

Dear  Doctor, 
Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 
J.  RAMSAY. 


No.  XXXIV. 
FROM  MR.  JOHN  MURDOCH. 

London,  28th  October,  1787. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

As  my  friend,  Mr  Brown  is  going 
from  this  place  to  your  neighbourhood,  I 
embrace  the  opportunity  of  telling  you 
that  I  am  yet  alive,  tolerably  well,  and  al- 
ways  in  expectation  of  being  better.  By 
the  much-valued  letters  before  me,  I  see 
that  it  was  my  duty  to  have  given  you 
this  intelligence  about  three  years  and 
nine  months  ago  :  and  have  nothing  to  al- 
lege as  an  excuse,  but  that  we  poor,  busy, 
bustling  bodies  in  London,  are  so  much 
f ;ikcn  up  with  the  various  pursuits  in 
which  we  are  here  engaged,  that  we  sel- 
dom think  of  any  person,  creature,  place, 
or  thing  that  is  absent.  But  this  is  not 
altogether  the  case  with  me  ;  for  I  often 
think  of  you,  and  Hornie  and  Russet,  and 
an  linfulhomrd  dfjith,  and  hunin  hrundane, 
all  in  the  same  minute,  although  you  and 
they  are  (as  I  suppose)  at  a  considerable 
distance.  I  flatter  myself,  however,  with 
t  he  pleasing  thought,  that  you  and  I  shall 
meet  some  time  or  other  either  in  Scot- 
land or  England.  If  ever  you  come  hither, 
you  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
your  poems  relished  by  the  Caledonians 
in  London,  full  as  much  as  they  can  be 
by  those  of  Edinburgh.  We  frequently 
repeat  some  of  your  verses  in  our  Cale- 
donian society;  and  you  may  believe, 
thai  I  dm  not,  a  little  vain  that  I  have  had 
i  te  share  in  cultivating  such  a  genius. 
I  was  not  absolutely  certain  that  you  were 


the  author,  till  a  few  days  ago,  when  I 
made  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Hill,  Dr.  M'Comb's 
eldest  daughter,  who  lives  in  town,  and 
who  told  me  that  she  was  informed  of  it 
by  a  letter  from  her  sister  in  Edinburgh, 
with  whom  you  had  been  in  company 
when  in  that  capital. 

Pray  let  me  know  if  you  have  any  in- 
tention of  visiting  this  huge,  overgrow  it 
metropolis?  It  would  afford  matter  for  a 
large  poem.  Here  you  would  have  an  op- 
portunity of  indulging  your  vein  in  the 
study  of  mankind,  perhaps  to  a  greater 
degree  than  in  any  city  upon  the  face  of 
the  globe;  for  the  inhabitants  of  London, 
as  you  know,  are  a  collection  of  all  na- 
tions, kindreds,  and  tongues,  who  make 
it,  as  it  were,  the  centre  of  their  com- 
merce. 


Present  my  respectful  compliments  to 
Mrs.  Burns,  to  my  dear  friend  Gilbert, 
and  all  the  rest  of  her  amiable  children. 
May  the  Father  of  the  universe  bless  you 
all  with  those  principles  and  dispositions 
that  the  best  of  parents  took  such  uncom- 
mon pains  to  instil  into  your  minds  from 
your  earliest  infancy  !  May.  you  live  as 
he  did !  if  you  do,  you  can  never  be  tin- 
happy.  I  feel  myself  grown  serious  all 
at  once,  and  affected  in  a  manner  I  can- 
not describe.  I  shall  only  add,  that  it  is 
one  of 'the  greatest  pleasures  I  promise 
myself  before  I  die,  that  of  seeing  the 
family  of  a  man  whose  memory  I  revere 
more  than  that  of  any  person  that  ever  1 
was  acquainted  with. 

I  am,  my  dear  Friend, 
Yours  sincerely, 

JOHN  MURDOCH. 


No.  XXXV. 
FROM  MR.  


Gordon  Castle,  2\sl  Oct.  1787. 

SIR, 

If  you  were  not  sensible  of  your  fault 
as  well  as  of  your  loss  in  leaving  this  place 
so  suddenly,  I  should  condemn  you  to 
starve  upon  cauld  kail  for  ae  towmont 
at  least !  and  as  for  Dick  Latinc*  your 
travelling  companion,  without  banning 
him  wV  a'  the  curses  contained  in  your 

*  Mr-  Nicol. 


LETTERS. 


115 


letter  (which  he'll  no  value  a  bawbee,)  I 
should  give  him  nought  but  Stra'bogie 
castocfes  to  chew  for  sax  ouks,  or  ay  until 
he  was  as  sensible  of  his  error  as  you  seem 
to  be  of  yours. 


Your  song  I  showed  without  producing 
the  author;  and  it  was  judged  by  the 
Dutchess  to  be  the  production  of  Dr. 
Beattie.  I  sent  a  copy  of  it,  by  her  Grace's 
desire,  to  a  Mrs.  M'l'herson  inBadenoch, 
who  sings  Moras?  and  all  other  Gaelic 
songs  in  great  perfection.  I  have  record- 
ed a  likewise,  by  Lady  Charlotte's  de- 
sire, in  a  book  belonging  to  her  ladyship, 
where  it  is  in  company  with  a  great  ma- 
ny other  poems  and  verses,  some  of  the 
writers  of  which  arc  no  less  eminent  for 
their  political  than  for  their  poetical  abili- 
ties. When  the  Dutchess  was  informed 
that  you  were  the  author,  she  wished  you 
had  written  the  verses  in  Scotch. 

Any  letter  directed  to  me  here  will 
come  to  hand  safely,  and,  if  sent  under 
the  Duke's  cover,  it  will  likewise  come 
free ;  that  is,  as  long  as  the  Duke  is  in 
this  country. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours  sincerely. 


No.  XXXVI. 

FROM  THE 

REVEREND  JOHN  SKINNER. 

Linsheart,  14th  November,  1787. 

SIR, 

Your  kind  return  without  date,  but 
of  post  mark  October  25th,  came  to  my 
hand  only  this  day ;  and,  to  testify  my 
punctuality  to  my  poetic  engagement,  I 
sit  down  immediately  to  answer  it  in  kind. 
Your  acknowledgment  of  my  poor  but  just 
encomiums  on  your  surprising  genius,  and 
your  opinion  of  my  rhyming  excursions, 
are  both,  I  think,  by  far  too  high.  The 
difference  between  our  two  tracks  of  edu- 
cation and  ways  of  life  is  entirely  in  your 
favour,  and  gives  you  the  preference  eve- 
ry manner  of  way.  I  know  a  classical 
education  will  not  create  a  versifying 
taste,  but  it  mightily  improves  and  assists 
it ;  and  though,  where  both  these  meet, 
there  may  sometimes  be  ground  for  ap- 
probation, yet  where  taste  appears  single 
W 


as  it  were,  and  neither  cramped  nor  sup- 
ported by  acquisition,  I  will  always  sus- 
tain the  justice  of  its  prior  claim  of  ap- 
plause. A  small  portion  of  taste,  this 
way,  1  have  had  almost  from  childhood, 
especially  in  the  old  Scottish  dialect ;  and  it 
is  as  old  a  thing  as  I  remember,  my  fondness 
for  Christ-kirk  o'  the  Green,  which  I  had  by 
heart,  ere  I  was  twelve  years  of  age,  and 
which,  some  years  ago,  I  attempted  to 
turn  into  Latin  verse.  While  I  was  young, 
1  dabbled  a  good  deal  in  these  things  ;  but, 
on  getting  the  black  gown,  I  gave  it  pret- 
ty much  over,  till  my  daughters  grew  up, 
who,  being  all  good  singers,  plagued  me 
for  words  to  some  of  their  favourite  tunes, 
and  so  extorted  these  effusions,  which 
have  made  a  public  appearance  beyond  my 
expectations,  and  contrary  to  my  inten- 
tions, at  the  same  time  that  I  hope  there 
is  nothing  to  be  found  in  them  uncharac- 
teristic, or  unbecoming  the  cloth  which  I 
would  always  wish  to  sec  respected. 

As  to  the  assistance  you  purpose  from 
me  in  the  undertaking  you  are  engaged 
in,*  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  give  it  so  far  as 
I  could  wish,  and  you  perhaps  expect. 
My  daughters,  who  were  my  only  intelli- 
gencers, are  all  foris-familiate,  and  the 
old  woman  their  mother  has  lost  that 
taste.  There  are  two  from  my  own  pen, 
which  T  might  give  you,  if  worth  the 
while.  One  to  the  old  Scotch  tune  of 
Dumbarton's  Drtims. 

The  other  perhaps  you  have  met  with, 
as  your  noble  friend  the  Dutchess  has,  I 
am  told,  heard  of  it.  It  was  squeezed  out 
of  me  by  a  brother  parson  in  her  neigh- 
bourhood, to  accommodate  a  new  High- 
land reel  for  the  Marquis's  birth-day,  to 
the  stanza  of 

"  Tune  your  fiddles,  tune  them  sweetly,"  &c. 

If  this  last  answer  your  purpose,  you 
may  have  it  from  a  brother  of  mine,  Mr. 
James  Skinner,  writer  in  Edinburgh,  who, 
I  believe,  can  give  the  music  too. 

There  is  another  humorous  thing  I  have 
heard,  said  to  be  done  by  the  Catholic 
priest  Gcddes,  and  which  hit  my  taste 
much : 

"  There  was  a  wee  wifeikle,  was  coining  frae  the  fair, 
Had  gotten  a  little  drapikie  which  bred  her  meikle  care, 
It  took  upo'  the  wifie's  heart,  and  she  began  to  spew, 
And  co'  the  wee  wifeikie,  I  wish  I  binna  foil, 

J  tcish,  <$-c  <$-c. 

*  A  plan  of  publishing  a  Complete  collection  of  Scot- 
tish Songs,  &.c. 


116 


LETTERS. 


I  have  heard  of  another  new  composi- 
tion, by  a  young  ploughman  of  my  ac- 
quaintance,  that  1  am  vastly  pleased  with, 
tii  the  tune  of  The  Humours  of  Glen, 
which  1  fear  wont  do,  as  the  music,  1  am 
told,  is  of  Irish  original.  1  have  mention- 
ed these,  such  as  they  are,  to  show  my 
readiness  to  oblige  you,  and  to  contribute 
my  mite,  if  I  could,  to  the  patriotic  work 
you  have  in  hand,  and  which  I  wish  all 
success  to.  You  have  only  to  notify  your 
mind,  and  what  you  want  of  the  above 
shall  be  sent  you. 

Mean  time,  while  you  are  thus  publicly, 
1  may  say,  employed,  do  not  sheath  your 
own  proper  and  piercing  weapon.  From 
what  I  have  seen  of  yours  already,  I  am 
inclined  to  hope  for  much  good.  One 
lesson  of  virtue  and  morality  delivered  in 
your  amusing  style,  and  from  such  as  you, 
will  operate  more  than  dozens  would  do 
from  such  as  me,  who  shall  be  told  it  is 
our  employment,  and  be  never  more  mind- 
ed :  whereas,  from  a  pen  like  yours,  as 
being  one  of  the  many,  what  comes  will 
be  admired.  Admiration  will  produce  re- 
gard, and  regard  will  leave  an  impression, 
especially  when  example  goes  along. 

Now  binna  saying  I'm  ill  bred, 
Else,  by  my  troth,  I'll  not  be  glad, 
For  cadgers,  ye  have  heard  it  said, 

And  sic  like  fry, 
Maun  ay  be  harland  in  their  trade, 

And  sae  maun  I. 

Wishing  you,  from  my  poet-pen,  all 
success,  and,  in  my  other  character,  all 
happiness  and  heavenly  direction, 
I  remain,  with  esteem, 

Your  sincere  friend, 
JOHN  SKINNER. 


No.  XXXVII. 
FROM  MRS.  ROSE. 

Kilravock  Castle,  30lh  Nov.  1787. 


I  hope  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to 
believe,  that  it  was  no  defecl  in  gratitude 
for  your  punctual  performance  of  your 
parting  promise,  that  hae  made  me  so  long 
in  acknowledging  it,  but  merely  the  diffi- 
culty I  had  in  getting  the  Highland  songs 
you  wished  to  have,  accurately  noted; 
they  are  at  last  enclosed ;  but  how  6hall  I 


convey  along  with  them  those  graces  they 
acquired  from  the  melodious  voice  of  one 
of  the  fair  spirits  of  the  Hill  of  Kildrum- 
mie  !  These  1  must  leave  to  your  imagi- 
nation to  supply.  It  has  powers  sufficient 
to  transport  you  to  her  side,  to  recall  her 
accents,  and  to  make  them  still  vibrate  in 
the  ears  of  memory.  To  her  I  am  in- 
debted for  getting  the  enclosed  notes. 
They  are  clothed  with  "  thoughts  that 
breathe,  and  words  that  burn."  Thesey 
however,  being  in  an  unknown  tongue  to 
you,  you  must  again  have  recourse  to  that 
same  fertile  imagination  of  yours  to  inter- 
pret them,  and  suppose  a  lover's  description 
of  the  beauties  of  an  adored  mistress — 
Why  did  1  say  unknown?  the  language 
of  love  is  a  universal  one,  that  seems  to 
have  escaped  the  confusion  of  Babel,  and 
to  be  understood  by  all  nations. 

I  rejoice  to  find  that  you  were  pleased 
with  so  many  things,  persons,  and  places, 
in  your  northern  tour,  because  it  leads 
me  to  hope  you  may  be  induced  to  revisit 
them  again.  That  the  old  castle  of  Kil- 
ravock, and  its  inhabitants  were  amongst 
these,  adds  to  my  satisfaction.  I  am  even 
vain  enough  to  admit  your  very  flattering 
application  of  the  line  of  Addison's  ;  at 
any  rate,  allow  me  to  believe,  that  "friend- 
ship will  maintain  the  ground  she  has 
occupied  in  both  our  hearts,"  in  spite  of 
absence,  and  that  when  we  do  meet,  it 
will  be  as  acquaintance  of  a  score  years' 
standing;  and  on  this  footing  consider 
me  as  interested  in  the  future  course  of 
your  fame  so  splendidly  commenced.  Any 
communications  of  the  progress  of  your 
muse  will  be  received  with  great  grati- 
tude, and  the  fire  of  your  genius  will  have 
power  to  warm  even  us,  frozen  sisters  of 
the  north. 

The  fire-sides  of  Kilravock  and  Kil- 
drummie  unite  in  cordial  regards  to 
you.  When  you  incline  to  figure  either 
in  your  idea,  suppose  some  of  us  reading 
your  poems,  and  some  of  us  singing  your 
songs,  and  my  little  Hugh  looking  at  your 
picture,  and  you'll  seldom  be  wrong.  We 
remember  Mr.  Nicol  with  as  much  good 
will  as  we  can  do  any  body  who  hurried 
Mr.  Burns  from  us. 

Farewell,  Sir :  I  cafi  only  contribute 
the  widow's  mite,  to  the  esteem  and  admi- 
ration excited  by  your  merits  and  genius; 
but  this  I  give,  as  she  did,  with  all  my 
heart — being  sincerely  yours. 

EL.  ROSE. 


LETTERS. 


117 


No.  XXXVIII. 
TO  THE   EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 


MT    LORD, 

I  K?fow  your  Lordship  will  disapprove 
of  my  ideas  in  a  request  I  am  going  to 
make  to  you,  but  I  have  weighed,  long 
and  seriously  weighed,  my  situation,  my 
hopes,  and  turn  of  mind,  and  am  fully  fix- 
ed to  my  scheme,  if  I  can  possibly  effec- 
tuate it.  I  wish  to  get  into  the  Excise; 
I  am  told  that  your  Lordship's  interest 
will  easily  procure  me  the  grant  from  the 
Commissioners  ;  and  your  Lordship's  pa- 
tronage and  goodness,  which  have  already 
rescued  me  from  obscurity,  wretchedness, 
and  exile,  embolden  me  to  ask  that  inter- 
est. You  have  likewise  put  it  in  my 
power  to  save  the  little  tie  of  home  that 
sheltered  an  aged  mother,  two  brothers, 
and  three  sisters,  from  destruction.  There, 
my  Lord,  you  have  bound  me  over  to  the 
highest  gratitude. 

My  brother's  farm  is  but  a  wretched 
lease ;  but  I  think  he  will  probably  wea- 
ther out  the  remaining  seven  years  of  it; 
and,  after  the  assistance  which  I  have 
given,  and  will  give  him,  to  keep  the  fa- 
mily together,  I  think,  by  my  guess,  I 
shall  have  rather  better  than  two  hun- 
dred pounds,  and  instead  of  seeking  what 
is  almost  impossible  at  present  to  find,  a 
farm  that  I  can  certainly  live  by,  with  so 
small  a  stock,  I  shall  lodge  this  sum  in  a 
banking-house,  a  sacred  deposit,  except- 
ing only  the  calls  of  uncommon  distress 
or  necessitous  old  age ;  *  *  *  * 

These,  My  Lord,  are  my  views ;  I  have 
resolved  from  the  maturest  deliberation  ; 
and  now  I  am  fixed,  I  shall  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  carry  my  resolve  into  execu- 
tion. Your  Lordship's  patronage  is  the 
strength  of  my  hopes ;  nor  have  I  yet  ap- 
plied to  any  body  else.  Indeed  my  heart 
sinks  within  me  at  the  idea  of  applying  to 
any  other  of  the  Great  who  have  honour- 
ed me  with  their  countenance.  I  am  ill 
qualified  to  dog  the  heels  of  greatness 
with  the  impertinence  of  solicitation,  and 
tremble  nearly  as  much  at  the  thought  of 
the  cold  promise,  as  the  cold  denial:  but 
to  your  Lordship  I  have  not  only  the 
honour,  the  comfort,  but  the  pleasure  of 
being 

Your  Lordship's  much  obliged, 

And  deeply  indebted  humble  servant. 


TO 


No.  XXXIX. 
-  DALRYMPLE,  Esq. 


OF    ORANGEFIELD. 


Edinburgh,  1787. 

DEAR    SIR, 

I  suppose  the  devil  is  so  elated  with 
his  success  with  you,  that  he  is  determin- 
ed, by  a  coup  de  main,  to  complete  his 
purposes  on  you  all  at  once,  in  making 
you  a  poet.  I  broke  open  the  letter  you 
sent  me  :  hummed  over  the  rhymes  ;  and 
as  I  saw  they  were  extempore,  said  to 
myself,  they  were  very  well ;  but  when  I 
saw  at  the  bottom  a  name  I  shall  ever 
value  with  grateful  respect,  "  I  gapit  wide 
but  naething  spak."  I  was  nearly  as 
much  struck  as  the  friends  of  Job,  of  af- 
fliction-bearing memory,  when  they  sat 
down  with  him  seven  days  and  seven 
nights,  and  spake  not  a  word. 


I  am  naturally  of  a  superstitious  cast, 
and  as  soon  as  my  wonder-scared  imagi- 
nation regained  its  consciousness,  and 
resumed  its  functions,  I  cast  about  what  • 
this  mania  of  yours  might  portend.  My 
foreboding  ideas  had  the  wide  stretch  of 
possibility ;  and  several  events,  great  in 
their  magnitude,  and  important  in  their 
consequences,  occurred  to  my  fancy. 
The  downfall  of  the  conclave,  or  the 
crushing  of  the  cork  rumps ;  a  ducal  co- 
ronet to  Lord  George  G ,  and  the 

protestant  interest,  or  St.  Peter's  keys, 

tf\     *fc     %     H*     * 

You  want  to  know  how  I  come  on.  I 
am  just  in  statu  quo,  or,  not  to  insult  a 
gentleman  with  my  Latin,  in  "  auld  use 
and  wont."  The  noble  Earl  of  Glencairn 
took  me  by  the  hand  to-day,  and  interest- 
ed himself  in  my  concerns,  with  a  good- 
ness like  that  benevolent  Being  whose 
image  he  so  richly  bears.  He  is  a  stron- 
ger proof  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
than  any  that  philosophy  ever  produced. 
A  mind  like  his  can  never  die.  Let  the 
worshipful  squire  H.  L.  or  the  reverend 
Mass  J.  M.  go  into  their  primitive  no- 
thing. At  best,  they  are  but  ill-digested 
lumps  of  chaos,  only  one  of  them  strongly 
tinged  with  bituminous  particles  and  sul- 
phureous efiluvia.  But  my  noble  patron, 
eternal  as  the  heroic  swell  of  magnani- 
mity, and  the  generous  throb  of  benevo- 


its 


LETTERS. 


lence,  shall  look  on  with  princely  eye  at 
•■  the  war  of  elements,  the  wreck  of.mat- 
tcr,  and  the  crush  of  worlds." 


No.  XL. 


TO  SIR  JOHN  WIIITEFOORD. 
December,  1787. 

SIR, 

Mr.  M'Kenzie,  in  Mauchline,  my 
very  warm  and  worthy  friend,  has  inform- 
ed me  how  much  you  are  pleased  to  in- 
terest yourself  in  my  fate  as  a  man,  and 
(what  to  me  is  incomparably  dearer)  my 
fame  as  a  poet.  I  have,  Sir,  in  one  or 
two  instances,  been  patronised  by  those 
of  your  character  in  life,  when  I  was  in- 
troduced to  their  notice  by  *****  * 
friends  to  them,  and  honoured  acquain- 
tance to  me ;  but  you  are  the  first  gentle- 
man  in  the  country  whose  benevolence 
and  goodness  of  heart  have  interested 
him  for  me,  unsolicited  and  unknown.  I 
am  not  master  enough  of  the  etiquette 
of  these  matters  to  know,  nor  did  I  stay 
to  inquire,  whether  formal  duty  bade,  or 
cold  propriety  disallowed,  my  thanking 
you  in  this  manner,  as  I  am  convinced, 
from  the  light  in  which  you  kindly  view 
me,  that  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  be- 
lieve this  letter  is  not  the  manoeuvre  of 
the  needy,  sharping  author,  fastening  on 
those  in  upper  life  who  honour  him  with 
a  little  notice  of  him  or  his  works.  Indeed, 
the  situation  of  poets  is  generally  such,  to 
a  proverb,  as  may,  in  some  measure,  palli- 
ate that  prostitution  of  art  and  talents 
they  have  at  times  been  guilty  of.  I  do 
not  think  prodigality  is,  by  any  means,  a 
necessary  concomitant  of  a  poetic  turn  ; 
but  I  believe  a  careless,  indolent  inatten- 
tion to  economy,  is  almost  inseparable 
from  it ;  then  there  must  be,  in  the  heart 
of  every  bard  of  Nature's  making,  a  cer- 
tain modest  sensibility,  mixed  with  a  kind 
of  pride,  that  will  ever  keep  him  out  of 
the  way  of  those  windfalls  of  fortune, 
which  frequently  light  on  hardy  impu- 
dence and  footlicking  servility.  It  is  not 
easy  to  imagine  a  more  helpless  state  than 
his,  whose  poetic  fancy  unfits  him  for  the 
world,  and  whose  character  as  a  scholar 
gives  him  some  pretensions  to  the  poli- 
trssfi  of  life — yet  is  as  poor  as  I  am. 

For  my  part,  I  thank  Heaven   my  star 
has  been  kinder;  learning  never  elevated 

my  ideas  above  tne  peasant's  shade,  and 


I   have  an  independent  fortune  at  the 
plough-tail. 

T  was  surprised  to  hear  that  any  one 
who  pretended  in  the  least  to  the  manners 
of  the  gentleman,  should  be  so  foolish,  or 
worse,  as  to  stoop  to  traduce  the  morals  of 
such  a  one  as  I  am ;  and  so  inhumanly 
cruel,  too,  as  to  meddle  with  that  late 
most  unfortunate,  unhappy  part  of  my 
story.  With  a  tear  of  gratitude,  I  thank 
you,  Sir,  for  the  warmth  with  which  you 
interposed  in  behalf  of  my  conduct.  I 
am,  I  acknowledge,  too  frequently  the 
sport  of  whim,  caprice,  and  passion — but 
reverence  to  Gon,  and  integrity  to  my  fel- 
low creatures,  I  hope  I  shall  ever  preserve. 
I  have  no  return,  Sir,  to  make  you  for 
your  goodness,  but  one — a  return  which, 
I  am  persuaded  will  not  be  unacceptable 
— the  honest,  warm  wishes  of  a  grateful 
heart  for  your  happiness,  and  every  one 
of  that  lovely  flock  who  stand  to  you  in  a 
filial  relation.  If  ever  Calumny  aim  the 
poisoned  shaft  at  them,  may  friendship  be 
by  to  ward  the  blow  ! 


No.  XLI 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  2\st  January,  1788. 

After  six  weeks'  confinement,  I  am 
begining  to  walk  across  the  room.  They 
have  been  six  horrible  weeks,  anguish 
and  low  spirits  made  me  unfit  to  read, 
write,  or  think. 

I  have  a  hundred  times  wished  that 
one  could  resign  life  as  an  officer  resigns 
a  commission ;  for  I  would  not  take  in  any 
poor,  ignorant  wretch,  by  selling  out. 
Lately  I  was  a  sixpenny  private,  and, 
God  knows,  a  miserable  soldier  enough: 
now  I  march  to  the  campaign,  a  starv- 
ing cadet  ;  a  little  more  conspicuously 
wretched. 

I  am  ashamed  of  all  this ;  for  though  I 
do  want  bravery  for  the  warfare  of  life, 
I  could  wish,  like  some  other  soldiers,  to 
have  as  much  fortitude  or  cunning  as  to 
dissemble  or  conceal  my  cowardice. 

As  soon  as  I  can  bear  the  journey, 
which  will  be,  I  suppose,  about  the  mid- 
dle of  next  week,  I  leave  Edinburgh,  and 
soon  after  I  shall  pay  my  grateful  duty  at 
Dunlop-IIouse. 


LETTERS. 


119 


No.  XLII. 


EXTRACT  OF  A  LETTER 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Edinburgh,  12th  February,  1788. 
Some  things  in  your  late  letters  hurt 
me :  not  that  you  say  them,  but  that  you 
mistake  me.  Religion,  my  honoured  Ma- 
dam, has  not  only  been  all  my  life  my 
chief  dependence,  but  my  dearest  enjoy- 
ment. I  have  indeed  been  the  luckless 
victim  of  wayward  follies:  but,  alas;  I 
have  ever  been  "  more  fool  than  knave." 
A  mathematician  without  religion  is  a 
probable  character;  and  an  irreligious 
poet  is  a  monster. 


No.  XLIII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mossgicl,  1th  March,  1788. 

MADAM, 

The  last  paragraph  in  yours  of  the 
30th  February  affected  me  most,  so  I  shall 
begin  ^my  answer  where  you  ended  your 
letter.  That  I  am  often  a  sinner  with 
any  little  wit  I  have,  I  do  confess :  but  I 
have  taxed  my  recollection  to  no  purpose 
to  find  out  when  it  was  employed  against 
you.  I  hate  an  ungenerous  sarcasm  a 
great  deal  worse  than  I  do  the  devil ;  at 
least,  as  Milton  describes  him ;  and  though 
I  may  be  rascally  enough  to  be  sometimes 
guilty  of  it  myself,  I  cannot  endure  it  in 
others.  You,  my  honoured  friend,  who 
cannot  appear  in  any  light  but  you  are 
6ure  of  being  respectable — you  can  afford 
to  pass  by  an  occasion  to  display  your  wit, 
because  you  may  depend  for  fame  on  your 
sense ;  or,  if  you  choose  to  be  silent,  you 
know  you  can  rely  on  the  gratitude  of 
many  and  the  esteem  of  all ;  but,  God 
help  us  wiio  are  wits  or  witlings  by  pro- 
fession, if  we  stand  not  for  fame  there, 
we  sink  unsupported ! 

I  am  highly  flattered  by  the  news  you 
tell  me  of  Coila.*  I  may  say  to  the  fair 
painter  who  does  me  so  much  honour,  as 
Dr.  Beattie  says  to  Ross  the  poet  of  his 
muse  Scota,  from  which,  by  the  by,  Itook 
the  ideaof  Coila :  ('Tis  apoemof  Beattie's 
in  the  Scots  dialect,  which  perhaps  you 
have  never  seen.) 

*  A  lady  (daughter  of  Mrs.  Dunlopj  was  making  a 
picture  from  the  description  of  Coila  in  tlic  Vision.     E. 


"  Ye  shak  your  head,  but  o'  my  fegs, 
Ye'vo  set  auld  Scota  on  her  legs : 
Lang  had  she  lien  \vi'  bulTe  and  flrus, 

Bombay.' d  and  dizzie, 
Her  fiddle  wanted  strings  and  pegs, 

VVues  me,  poor  liizzie;' 


No.  XL1V. 
TO  MR.  ROBERT  CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline,  3\st  March,  1788. 
Yesterday,  my  dear  Sir,  as  T  was 
riding  through  a  track  of  melancholy,  joy- 
less mnirs,  between  Galloway  and  Ayr- 
shire, it  being  Sunday,  I  turned  my 
thoughts  to  psalms,  and  hymns,  and  spiri- 
tual songs :  and  your  favourite  air  ( 'aptain 
Okean,  coming  at  length  in  my  head,  I 
tried  these  words  to  it.  You  will  see 
that  the  first  part  of  the  tune  must  be  re- 
peated.* 

I  am  tolerably  pleased  with  these  verses ; 
but,  as  I  have  only  a  sketch  of  the  tune, 
I  leave  it  with  you  to  try  if  they  suit  the 
measure  of  the  music. 

I  am  so  harassed  with  care  and  anxiety 
about  this  farming  project  of  mine,  that 
my  muse  has  degenerated  into  the  veriest 
prose-wench  that  ever  picked  cinders  or 
followed  a  tinker.  When  I  am  fairly  got 
into  the  routine  of  business,  I  shall  trou- 
ble you  with  a  longer  epistle;  perhaps 
with  some  queries  respecting  farming ;  at 
present  the  world  sits  such  a  load  on  my 
mind,  that  it  has  effaced  almost  every 
trace  of  the in  me. 

My  very  best  compliments  and  good 
wishes  to  Mrs.  Cleghorn. 


No.  XLV.  / 

FROM  MR.  ROBERT  CLEGHORN 
Saughton  Mills,  27th  April,  1788. 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER  FARMER, 

I  was  favoured  with  your  very  kind 
letter  of  the  31  st  ult.,  and  consider  myself 
greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  attention 
in  sending  me  the  songf  to  my  favourite 
air,  Captain  Okean.     The  words  delight 

*  Here  the  Bard  gives  the  first  stanza  of  the  "  Cheva- 
lier's Lament." 
t  The  Chevalier's  Lament. 


120 


LETTERS. 


me  much,  they  fit  the  tune  to  a  hair.  I 
wish  you  would  send  nic  a  verse  or  two 
more  :  and  if  you  have  no  objection,  I 
would  have  it  in  the  Jacobite  stylo.  Sup- 
pose it  should  be  sung  after  the  fatal  field 
of  Culloden  by  the  unfortunate  Charles. 
Tenducci  personates  the  lovely  Mary 
Stuart  in  the  song,  Queen  Mary's  La- 
mentation. Why  may  not  1  sing  in  the 
person  of  her  great-great-great-gnuul- 
son  ?* 

Any  skill  I  have  in  country  business 
you  mav  truly  command.  Situation,  soil, 
customs  of  countries,  may  vary  from  each 
other,  but  Farmer  Attention  is  a  good  far- 
mer in  every  place.  I  beg  to  hear  from 
you  soon.  Mrs.  Cleghorn  joins  me  in 
best  compliments. 

I  am,  in  the  most  comprehensive  sense 
of  the  word,  your  very  sincere  friend, 

ROBERT   CLEGHORN. 


No.  XLVI. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 
Mauchline,  28th  April,  1788. 

MADAM, 

Your  powers  of  reprehension  must 
be  great  indeed,  as  I  assure  you  they 
made  my  heart  ache  with  penitential  pangs, 
even  though  I  was  really  not  guilty.  As 
I  commence  farmer  at  Whitsunday,  you 
will  easily  guess  I  must  be  pretty  busy  ! 
but  that  is  not  all.  As  I  got  the  offer  of 
the  excise-business  without  solicitation  ; 
as  it  costs  me  only  six  months'  attendance 
for  instructions  to  entitle  me  to  a  com- 
mission, which  commission  lies  by  me, 
and  at  any  future  period,  on  my  simple 
petition,  can  be  resumed  :  I  thought  five- 
and-thirty  pounds  a-year  was  no  bad  der- 
nier resort  for  a  poor  poet,  if  fortune,  in 
her  jade  tricks,  should  kick  him  down 
from  the  little  eminence  to  which  she  has 
lately  helped  him  up. 

For  this  reason,  I  am  at  present  attend- 
ing these  instructions,  to  have  thorn  com- 
pleted before  Whitsunday-  Still,  Madam, 
I  prepared,  with  the  6incercst  pleasure, 
to  meet  you  at  the  Mount,  and  came  to 
my  brother's  on  Saturday  night,  to  Bet 

*  Our  Poet  took  this  advice.  The  whole  of  this  beau- 
tiful song,  as  it  was  afterwards  finished,  is  inserted  in 
the  Poems,  p.  7'J. 


out  on  Sunday ;  but  for  some  nights  pre- 
ceding, 1  had  slept  in  an  apartment  where 
the  force  of  the  winds  and  rains  was  only 
mitigated  by  being  sifted  through  num- 
berless apertures  in  the  windows,  walls, 
&.c.  In  consequence,  I  was  on  Sunday 
Monday,  and  part  of  Tuesday,  unable  to 
stir  out  of  bed,  with  all  the  miserable  ef- 
fects of  a  violent  cold. 

You  see,  Madam,  the  truth  of  the  French 
maxim  Le  vrai  n'est  pas  tovjours  le  vrai- 
scmblable.  Your  last  was  so  full  of  ex- 
postulation, and  was  something  so  like  the 
language  of  an  offended  friend,  that  I  be- 
gan to  tremble  for  a  correspondence  which 
I  had  with  grateful  pleasure  set  down  as 
one  of  the  greatest  enjoyments  of  my  fu- 
ture life. 


Your  books  have  delighted  me  :  Virgil, 
Dnjden,  and  Tasso,  were  all  equally  stran- 
gers to  me  :  but  of  this  more  at  large  in 
my  next. 


NO.  XLVII. 
FROM  THE  REV.  JOHN  SKINNER. 

Linsheart,  28th  April,  1788. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  received  your  last  with  the  curious 
present  you  have  favoured  me  with,  and 
would  have  made  proper  acknowledgments 
before  now,  but  that  I  have  been  neces- 
sarily engaged  in  matters  of  a  different 
complexion.  And  now,  that  I  have  got 
a  little  respite,  I  make  use  of  it  to  thank 
you  fortius  valuable  instance  of  your  good- 
will, and  to  assure  you  that,  with  the  sin- 
cere heart  of  a  true  Scotsman,  I  highly 
esteem  both  the  gift  and  the  giver ;  as  a 
small  testimony  of  which  I  have  herewith 
sent  you  for  your  amusement  (and  in  a 
form  which  I  hope  you  will  excuse  for  sa- 
ving postage)  the  two  songs  I  wrote  about 
to  you  already.  Charming  Nancy  is  the 
real  production  of  genius  in  a  ploughman 
of  twenty  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  its 
appearing,  with  no  more  educalion  than 
what  he  picked  up  at  an  old  farmer-grand- 
father's fire-side,  though  now  by  the 
strength  of  natural  parts,  he  is  clerk  to  a 
thriving  bleach-field  in  the  neighbour- 
Inn  id.  And  I  doubt  not  but  you  will  find 
in  it  a  simplicity  and  delicacy,  with  some 
turns  of  humour,  that  will  please  one  of 


LETTERS. 


121 


your  taste ;  at  least  it  pleased  me  when  I 
first  saw  it,  if  that  ran  he  any  recommen- 
dation to  it.  The  other  is  entirely  de- 
scriptive of  my  own  sentiments  :   and  you 

may  make  use  of  one  or  both  as  you  shall 
see  good.* 

*  CHARMING  NANCY. 

A  SONG  BY  A  BUCHAN  PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — "  Humours  of  Glen." 

Some  sing  of  sweet  Mally,  some  sing  of  fair  Nelly, 

And  some  call  sweet  Susie  the  cause  of  their  pain  ; 
Some  love  to  he  jolly,  some  love  melancholy, 

And  some  love  to  sing  of  the  Humours  of  Glen. 
Hut  my  only  fancy  i.s  my  pretty  Nancy, 

In  Tenting  my  passion  I'll  strive  to  be  plain  ; 
I'll  ask  no  more  treasure,  I'll  seek  no  more  pleasure, 

Hut  thee,  my  dear  Nancy,  gin  thou  wcrt  my  ain. 

Her  beauty  delights  mo,  bet  kindness  invites  me, 

Her  pleasant  behaviour  is  free  from  all  stain, 
Therefore,  my  sweel  jewel,  O  do  not  prove  cruel; 

Consent,  my  deal  Nancy,  and  ciiine,  be  my  ain. 
Her  carriage  is  comely,  her  language  is  homely, 

Her  dress  is  quite  decent  when  ta'en  in  the  main  ; 
She's  blooming  in  feature,  slie's  handsome  in  stature, 

My  charming  dear  Nancy,  O  wert  thou  my  ain  ! 

Like  Phoebus  adorning  the  fair  ruddy  morning, 

Her  bright  eyes  arc  sparkling,  her  brows  are  serene, 
I  lei-  yellow  locks  shining,  in  beauty  combining, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  wilt  thou  be  my  ain? 
The  whole  of  her  face  is  with  maidenly  graces 

Array' il  like  the  gowans  that  grow  in  yon  glen  ; 
She's  well  shap'd  and  slender,  true-  hearted  and  tender, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  O  wert  thou  my  ain  ! 

I'll  seek  thro'  the  nation  for  some  habitation, 

To  shelter  my  jewel  from  cold,  snow,  and  rain, 
With  songs  to  my  deary,  I'll  keep  her  ay  cheery, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  gin  thou  wert  my  ain. 
I'll  work  at  my  calling  to  furnish  thy  dwelling, 

With  ev'ry  thing  needful  thy  life  to  sustain; 
Thou  shalt  not  sit  single,  but  by  a  clear  ingle, 

I'll  marrow  thee,  Nancy,  when  thou  art  my  aiu. 

I'll  make  true  alfection  the  constant  direction 

Of  loving  my  Nancy,  while  life  doth  remain  ; 
Tho'  youth  will  be  wasting,  true  love  shall  be  lasting, 

My  charming  sweet  Nancy,  gin  thou  wert  my  ain. 
Tint  what  if  my  Nancy  should  alter  her  fancy, 

To  favour  another  be  forward  and  fain, 
I  will  not  compel  her,  but  plainly  I'll  tell  her, 

Begone,  thou  false  Nancy,  thou'se  ne'er  be  my  ain. 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG. 

BY  THE  REVEREND  J.  SKINNER. 

Tune—"  Dumbarton  Drums." 

O  !  why  should  old  age  so  much  wound  us?  O, 
There  is  nothing  ra't  all  to  confound  us,  O, 

For  how  happy  now  am  I, 

With  my  old  wife  sitting  by, 
And  our  bairns  and  our  oys  all  uround  us.  O. 


You  will  oblige  me  by  presenting  my 
respects  to  your  host,  Mr.  Cruickshank, 
who  has  given  such  high  approbation  to 
my  poor  Latinity ;  von  may  let  him  know, 
thai  as  |  have  likewise  been  a  dabbler  in 
Latin  poetry,  1  have  two  things  that  I 
would,  if  he  desires  it,  submit,  not  to  his 
judgment,  hut  to  his  amusement ;  t lie 
one,  a  translation  of  Christ's  Kirk  o'  the 
Green,  printed  at  Aberdeen  some  years 
ago;  the  other,  Batrachomyomachia  Ho- 
meri  latinis  vestdta  rum  additamentis,  given 
in  lately  to  Chalmers,  to  print  if  he  pleas- 
es.    Mr.  C.  will  know  Scria  non  semper 

We  began  in  the  world  wi'  naething,  O, 
And  u  e'\  e  jogg'd  on  and  toil'd  tor  the  ae  thing,  O, 
We  made  use  of  what  we  had, 
And  OUT  thankful  hearts  were  glad, 
When  we  got  the  bit  meat  and  the  claething,  O. 

We  have  liv'd  all  our  life-time  contented,  O, 
Since  the  day  wc  became  first  acquainted,  O, 

It's  true  we've  been  but  poor, 

And  we  are  so  to  this  hour, 
Yet  we  never  yet  repined  nor  lamented,  O 

We  ne'er  thought  of  schemes  to  be  wealthy.  O, 
By  ways  tiiat  were  cunning  or  stealthy,  O, 
But  we  always  had  the  bliss, 
And  what  further  could  we  wiss, 
To  be  pleas'd  wi'  ourselves,  and  be  healthy,  O. 

What  tho'  we  canna  boast  of  our  guineas,  O, 
We  have  plenty  of  Jockies  and  Jeanies,  O, 

And  these  I'm  certain,  are 

More  desirable  by  far, 
Than  a  pocket  full  of  poor  yellow  sleenies,  O. 

We  have  seen  many  wonder  and  ferlie,  O, 
Of  changes  that  almost  are  yearly,  O, 

Among  rich  folks  up  and  down, 

Both  in  country  and  in  town, 
Who  now  live  but  scrimply  and  barely,  O. 

Then  why  should  people  brag  of  prosperity,  O, 
A  straitened  life  we  see  is  no  rarity,  O, 

Indeed  we've  been  in  want, 

Ami  our  living  been  but  scant, 
Yet  we  never  were  reduced  to  need  charity,  O 

In  tins  house  we  first  came  together,  O, 

Where  we've  long  been  a  Father  and  a  Mither,  O; 

And,  tho'  not  of  stone  and  lime, 

It  will  last  us  a'  our  time, 
And,  I  hope,  we  shall  never  need  anither,  O. 

And  when  we  leave  this  habitation,  O, 
We'll  depart  with  a  good  commendation,  O, 

We'll  go  hand  in  hand  I  wiss, 

To  a  better  house  than  this, 
To  make  room  for  the  next  generation,  O. 

Then  why  should  old  ago  so  much  wound  us  ?  O, 
There's  nothing  in't  all  to  confound  us,  O, 

For  how  happy  now  am  I, 

With  my  old  wife  sitting  by, 
And  our  bairns  and  our  oys  all  around  us,  O. 


122 


LETTERS. 


delectant.  nanjoca  semper.    Semper  delec- 
tant  seria  mixta  juris. 

I  have  just  room  to  repeat  compliments 
and  good  wishes  from, 

Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

JOHN  SKINNER. 


No.  XLVHI. 
TO  PROFESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART. 
Mauchline,  3d  May,  1788. 

SIR, 

I  enclose  you  one  or  two  more  of  my 
bagatelles.  If  the  fervent  wishes  of  ho- 
nest gratitude  have  any  influence  with 
that  great  unknown  Being,  who  frames 
the  chain  of  causes  and  events,  prosperi- 
ty and  happiness  will' attend  your  visit  to 
the  Continent,  and  return  you  safe  to 
your  native  shore. 

Wherever  I  am,  allow  me,  Sir,  to  claim 
it  as  my  privilege  to  acquaint  you  with 
my  progress  in  my  trade  of  rhymes;  as  I 
am  sure  I  could  say  it  with  truth,  that 
next  to  my  little  fame,  and  the  having  it 
in  my  power  to  make  life  more  comforta- 
ble to  those  whom  nature  has  made  dear 
to  me,  I  shall  ever  regard  your  counte- 
nance, your  patronage,  your  friendly  good 
offices,  as  the  most  valued  consequence  of 
my  late  success  in  life. 


No.  XLIX. 

EXTRACT  OF  A  LETTER 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauchline,  Ath  May,  1788. 

MADAM, 

Dryden's  Virgil  has  delighted  me. 
I  do  not  know  whether  the  critics  will 
agree  with  me,  but  the  Gcorg-ics  are  to 
me  by  far  the  best  of  Virgil.  It  is,  in- 
deed, a  species  of  writing  entirely  new  to 
me,  and  lias  filled  my  head  with  a  thou- 
sand fancies  of  emulation:  but,  alas! 
when  I  read  tlie  Georgia  and  then  sur- 
vey my  own  powers,  'tis  like  the  idea  of  a 
Shetland  pony,  drawn  up  by  the  side  of  a 
thorough-bred  hunte  ,   to  start  for  the 


plate.  I  own  I  am  disappointed  in  the 
JEneid.  Faultless  correctness  may  please, 
and  does  highly  please  the  lettered  critic: 
but  to  that  awful  character  I  have  not  the 
most  distant  pretensions.  I  do  not  know 
whether  I  do  not  hazard  my  pretensions 
to  be  a  critic  of  any  kind,  when  I  say,  that 
I  think  Virgil,  in  many  instances,  a  ser- 
vile copier  of  Homer.  If  I  had  the  Odys- 
sey by  me,  I  could  parallel  many  passages 
where  Virgil  has  evidently  copied,  but  by 
no  means  improved  Homer.  Nor  can  I 
think  there  is  any  thing  of  this  owing  to 
the  translators ;  for,  from  every  thing  I 
have  seen  of  Dryden,  I  think  him,  in  ge- 
nius and  fluency  of  language,  Pope's  mas- 
ter. I  have  not  perused  Tasso  enough  to 
form  an  opinion ;  in  some  future  letter 
you  shall  have  my  ideas  of  him ;  though  I 
am  conscious  my  criticisms  must  be  very 
inaccurate  and  imperfect,  as  there  I  have 
ever  felt  and  lamented  my  want  of  learn- 
ing most. 


No.  L. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

21th  May,  1788. 

MADAM, 

I  have  been  torturing  my  philosophy 
to  no  purpose  to  account  for  that  kind 
partiality  of  yours,  which,  unlike  *  * 
*  has  followed  me  in  my  return  to  the 
shade  of  life,  with  assiduous  benevolence. 
Often  did  I  regret,  in  the  fleeting  hours  of 
my  Will-o'-Wisp-appearance,  that  "  here 
I  had  no  continuing  city  ;"  and,  but  for 
the  consolation  of  a  few  solid  guineas, 
could  almost  lament  the  time  that  a  mo- 
mentary acquaintance  with  wealth  and 
splendour  put  me  so  much  out  of  conceit 
with  the  sworn  companions  of  my  road 
through  life,  insignificance  and  poverty. 


There  are  few  circumstances  relating 
to  the  unequal  distribution  of  the  good 
things  of  this  life,  that  give  me  more  vex- 
ation '  I  mean  in  what  I  see  around  me,) 
than  the  importance  the  opulent  bestow 
on  their  trifling  family  affairs,  compared 
with  Ihe  very  same  things  on  the  con- 
tracted scale  of  a  cottage.  Last  after- 
noon I  had  the  honour  to  spend  an  hour 
or  two  at  a  good  woman's  fire-side,  where 
the  planks  that  composed  the  floor  were 
decorated  with  a  splendid  carpet,  and  the 


LETTERS. 


123 


ray  tables  sparkled  with  silver  and  china. 
Tis  now  about  term-day,  and  there  has 
been  a  revolution  among  those  creatures, 
who,  though  in  appearance  partakers,  and 

equally  noble  partakers,  of  the  same  na- 
ture with  Madame,  are  from  time  to  time, 
their  nerves,  their  sinews,  their  health, 
strength,  wisdom,  experience,  genius, 
time,  nay,  a  good  part  of  their  very 
thoughts,  sold  for  months  and  years,  * 
*  *  *  not  only  to  the  ne- 
cessities, the  conveniences,  but  the  ca- 
prices of  the  important  few.*  We  talked 
of  the  insignificant  creatures  ;  nay,  not- 
withstanding  their  general  stupidity  and 
rascality,  did  some  of  the  poor  devils  the 
honour  to  commend  them.  But  light  be 
the  turf  upon  his  breast  who  taught — 
"  Reverence  thyself."  We  looked  down 
on  the  unpolished  wretches,  their  imper- 
tinent wives  and  cloutcrly  brats,  as  the 
lordly  bull  does  on  the  little  dirty  ant- 
hill, whose  puny  inhabitants  he  crushes  in 
the  carelessness  of  his  rambles,  or  tosses 
in  the  air  in  the  wantonness  of  his  pride. 


No.  LI. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

AT   MR.   DUNLOP'S,   HADDINGTON. 

Ellisland,  \3th  June,  1788. 

"  Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  I  see, 
My  heart,  untravell'd,  fondly  turns  to  thee, 
Still  to  mybnither  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  Iengthcn'd  chain." 
Goldsmith* 

This  is  the  second  day,  my  honoured 
friend,  that  I  have  been  on  my  farm.  A 
solitary  inmate  of  an  old  smoky  Spence  ; 
far  from  every  object  I  love,  or  by  whom 
I  am  beloved ;  nor  any  acquaintance  old- 
er than  yesterday,  except  Jenny  Geddes, 
the  old  mare  I  ride  on ;  while  uncouth 
cares  and  novel  plans  hourly  insult  my 
awkward  ignorance  and  bashful  inexperi- 
ence. There  is  a  foggy  atmosphere  na- 
tive to  my  soul  in  the  hour  of  care,  conse- 
quently the  dreary  objects  seem  larger 
than  the  life.  Extreme  sensibility,  irri- 
tated and  prejudiced  on  the  gloomy  side 
by  a  series  of  misfortunes  and  disappoint- 

*  Pervant^,  in  Scotland,  are  hired  from  term  to  term ; 
t  e.  from  Whitsunday  to  Martinmao,  Sec. 
W  2 


ments,  at  that  period  of  my  existence 
when  the  soul  is  laying  in  her  cargo  of 
ideas  for  the  voyage  of  life,  is,  I  believe, 
the  principal  cause  of  this  unhappy  frame 
of  mind. 

"  The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  V  &c. 

Your  surmise,  Madam,  is  just ;  I  am  in- 
deed a  husband. 


I  found  a  once  much-loved  and  still 
much-loved  female,  literally  and  truly 
cast  out  to  the  mercy  of  the  naked  ele- 
ments ;  but  I  enabled  her  to  purchase  a 
shelter ;  and  there  is  no  sporting  with  a 
fellow-creature's  happiness  or  misery. 

The  most  placid  good-nature  and  sweet- 
ness of  disposition  ;  a  warm  heart,  grate- 
fully devoted  with  all  its  powers  to  love 
me ;  vigorous  health  and  sprightly  cheer- 
fulness, set  off  to  the  best  advantage  by  a 
more  than  commonly  handsome  figure  ; 
these,  I  think  in  a  woman,  may  make  a 
good  wife,  though  she  should  never  have 
read  a  page  but  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old 
and  New  Testament,  nor  have  danced  in  a 
brighter  assembly  than  a  penny-pay  wed- 
ding. 


No.  LII. 
TO  MR.  P.  HILL. 

MY  DEAR  HILL, 

I  shall  say  nothing  at  all  to  your 
mad  present — you  have  long  and  often 
been  of  important  service  to  me,  and  I 
suppose  you  mean  to  go  on  conferring  ob- 
ligations until  I  shall  not  be  able  to  lift  up 
my  face  before  you.  In  the  mean  time, 
as  Sir  Roger  de'  Coverly,  because  it  hap- 
pened to  be  a  cold  day  in  which  he  made 
his  will,  ordered  his  servants  great  coats 
for  mourning,  so,  because  I  have  been  this 
week  plagued  with  an  indigestion,  I  have 
sent  you  by  the  carrier  a  fine  old  ewe- 
milk  cheese. 

Indigestion  is  the  devil :  nay,  'tis  the 
devil  and  all.  It  besets  a  man  in  every 
one  of  his  senses.  I  lose  my  appetite  at 
the  sight  of  successful  knavery,  and  sicken 


124 


LETTERS. 


to  loathing  at  the  noiso  and  nonsense  of 
self-importanl  folly.  When  the  hollow- 
hearted  wretch  takes  me  by  the  hand,  the 
feeling  spoils  my  dinner;  the  proud  man's 
wine  so  offends  my  palate  that  it.  chokes 
me  in  the  gullet;  and  the  pulvilised,  fea- 
thered, pert  coxcomb,  is  so  disgustful  in 
my  nostril,  that  my  stomach  turns. 

If  ever  you  have  any  of  these  disagree- 
able sensations,  let  me  prescribe  tor  you 
patience  and  a  hit  of  my  cheese.  I  know 
that  you  are  no  niggard  of  your  good 
tilings  among  your  friends,  and  some  of 
them  are  in  much  need  of  a  slice.  There 
in  my  eye  is  our  friend,  Smellie  ;  a  man 
positively  of  the  first  abilities  and  great- 
est strength  of  mind,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
best  hearts  and  keenest  wits  that  I  have 
ever  met  with ;  when  you  see  him,  as 
alas  !  he  too  is  smarting  at  the  pinch  of 
distressful  circumstances,  aggravated  by 
the  sneer  of  contumelious  greatness — a 
bit  of  my  cheese  alone  will  not  cure  him ; 
but  if  you  add  a  tankard  of  brown  stout, 
and  superadd  a  magnum  of  right  Oporto, 
you  will  see  his  sorrows  vanish  like  the 
morning  mist  before  the  summer  sun. 

C h,  the  earliest  friend,  except  my 

only  brother,  that  I  have  on  earth,  and 
one  of  the  worthiest  fellows  that,  ever  any 
man  called  by  the  name  of  friend,  if  a 
luncheon  of  my  cheese  would  help  to  rid 
him  of  some  of  his  superabundant  modes- 
ty, you  would  do  well  to  give  it  him. 

David,*  with  his  Courant,  comes  too, 
across  my  recollection,  and  I  beg  you  will 
help  him  largely  from  the  said  ewe-milk 
cheese,  to  enable  him  to  digest  those— 
bedaubing  paragraphs  with  which  he  is 
eternally  larding  the  lean  characters  of 
certain  great  men  in  a  certain  great  town. 
I  grani  you  the  periods  are  very  well 
turned :  so,  a  fresh  egg  is  a  very  good 
thing,  but  when  thrown  at  a  man  in  a  pil- 
lory it  does  not  at  all  improve  his  figure, 
not  to  mention  the  irreparable  loss  of  the 
egg- 

My  facetious  friend,  D r,  I  would 

wish  also  to  be  a  partaker :  not  to  digest 
his  spleen,  for  that  he  laughs  off,  but  to 
digest  his  last  night's  wine  at  the  last  field 
day  of  the  Crochallan  corps. f 

Among  our  common  friends,  I  must  not 

*  Frinter  of  tlie  Edinburgh  Evening  Courant- 
t  A  club  of  choice  spirits. 


forget  one  of  tne  dearest  of  them,  Cun- 
ningham. The  brutality,  insolence,  and 
selfishness  of  a  world  unworthy  of  having 
such  a  fellow  as  he  is  in  it,  I  know  sticks 
in  his  stomach ;  and  if  you  can  help  him 
to  any  thing  that  will  make  him  a  little- 
easier  on  that  score,  it  will  be  very  obli- 
ging- 

As  to  honest  J S e,  he  is  such 

a  contented  happy  man,  that  I  know  not 
what  can  annoy  him,  except  perhaps  he 
may  not  have  got  the  better  of  a  parcel 
of  modest  anecdotes  which  a  certain  poet 
gave  him  one  night  at  supper,  the  last 
time  the  said  poet  was  in  town. 

Though  I  have  mentioned  so  many  men 
of  law,  1  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them  professedly. — The  faculty  are  be- 
yond my  prescription.  As  to  their  clients, 
that  is  another  thing :  God  knows  they 
have  much  to  digest ! 

The  clergy  I  pass  by ;  their  profundity 
of  erudition,  and  their  liberality  of  senti- 
ment ;  their  total  want  of  pride,  and  tin  ir 
detestation  of  hypocrisy,  are  so  proverbi- 
ally notorious  as  to  place  them  far,  far 
above  either  my  praise  or  censure. 

I  was  going  to  mention  a  man  of  worth, 
whom  I  have  the  honour  to  call  friend, 
the  Laird  of  Craigdarroch  ;  but  I  have 
spoken  to  the  landlord  of  the  King's-arms 
inn  here,  to  have,  at  the  next  county- 
meeting,  a  large  ewe-milk  cheese  on  the 
table,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Dumfries- 
shire whigs,  to  enable  them  to  digest  the 
Duke  of  Qucensberry's  late  political  con- 
duct. 

I  have  just  this  moment  an  opportuni- 
ty of  a  private  hand  to  Edinburgh,  as  per- 
haps you  would  not  digest  double  post- 


No.  LIII. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 
Mauchline,  2d  August,  1788. 

HONOURED   MADAM, 

Yotrn.  kind  letter  welcomed  me,  yes- 
ternight, to  Ayrshire.  I  am  indeed  seri- 
ously angry  with  you  at  the  quantum  of 
your  luck-penny  i  but,  vexed  and  hurt  as 


LETTERS. 


125 


I  was,  I  could  not  help  laughing  very 
heartily  at  the  noble  Lord's  apology  for 
the  missed  napkin. 

I  would  write  you  from  Nithsdale,  and 
give  you  my  direction  there,  but  1  have 
scarce  an  opportunity  of  calling  at  a  post- 
office  once  in  a  fortnight.  I  am  six  miles 
from  Dumfries,  am  scarcely  ever  in  it  my- 
self, and,  as  yet,  have  little  acquaintance 
in  the  neighbourhood.  Besides,  I  am  now 
very  busy  on  my  farm,  building  a  dwell- 
ing-house;  as  at  present  I  am  almost  an 
evangelical  man  in  Nithsdale,  for  I  have 
scarce  "  where  to  lay  my  head." 

There  are  some  passages  in  your  last 
that  brought  tears  in  my  eyes.  "The 
heart  knoweth  its  own  sorrows,  and  a 
stringer  intermeddleth  not  therewith." 
The  repository  of  these  "sorrows  of  the 
heart,"  is  a  kind  of  sanctum  sanctorum; 
and  'tis  only  a  chosen  friend,  and  that  too 
at  particular  sacred  times,  who  dares  en- 
ter into  them. 

"  Heaven  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 
That  nature  finest  strung." 

You  will  excuse  this  quotation  for  the 
sake  of  the  author.  Instead  of  entering 
on  this  subject  farther,  I  shall  transcribe 
you  a  few  lines  I  wrote  in  a  hermitage 
belonging  to  a  gentleman  in  my  Niths- 
dale neighbourhood.  They  are  almost 
the  onlvlavours  the  muses  have  confer- 
red on  me  in  that  country.* 

Since  T  am  in  the  way  of  transcribing, 
the  following  were  the  production  of  yes- 
terdnv,  as  1  jogged  through  the  wild  hills 
of  New-Cumnock.  I  intend  inserting 
them,  or  something  like  them,  in  an  epistle 
I  :i 1 1 1  going  to  write  to  the  nentleman  on 
whose  friendship  my  excise-hopes  depend, 
Mr.  Graham  of  Ffntry,  one  of  the  wor- 
thiest and  most  accomplished  gentlemen, 
not  only  of  this  country,  but  T  will  dare 
to  say  it,  of  this  age.  The  following  are 
just  the  first  crude  thoughts  "  unhouseled, 
unanointed,  unannealed." 


Pity  the  tuneful  muses'  helpless  train: 
Weak,  timid  landsmen  or.  life's  stormy  main  : 
The  world  were  bless'd,did  bliss  on  them  depend; 
Ah!  that"  the  friendly  e'er  should  want  a  friend  !" 
The  little  fate  bestows  they  share  as  .soon  ; 
Unlike  sage,  proverb'd  wisdom' shard-wrung  boon. 

*  The  lines  transcribed  were  thosft  written  in  Friars- 
Carse  Hermitage.     See  Poems  p.  62. 


Let  prudence  number  o'er  each  sturdy  son 

Who  life  and  wisdom  :it race  begun  ; 

\\  ho  feel  bj  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule; 
(Instinct's  a  brute,  ami  sentimenl  :>  fool !) 

Who  make  pool  tcill  do  wail  u) I  should; 

We  own  they're  prudent,  hut  who  owns  thcy'r 
good  .' 

Ye  wise  ones,  hence  !  ye  hurt  the  social  eye  ! 
God's  image  rudely  etch'd  on  Las;e  alloy  ! 
But  come 

Here  the  muse  left  me.  I  am  astonish- 
ed at  what  you  tell  me  of  Anthony's  wri- 
ting me.  I  never  received  it.  Poor  fellow! 
you  vex  me  much  by  telling  me  that  he 
is  unfortunate.  I  shall  be  in  Ayrshire 
ten  days  from  this  date.  I  have  just  room 
for  an  old  Roman  farewell ! 


No.  LIV. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

JUauchline,  10th  August,  1788. 

MY  MUCH  HONOURED    FRIEND, 

Yours  of  the  24th  June  is  before  me. 
I  found  it,  as  well  as  another  valued  friend 
— my  wife,  waiting  to  welcome  me  to 
Ayrshire  :  I  met  both  with  the  sincerest 
pleasure. 

When  I  write  you,  Madam,  I  do  not 
sit  down  to  answer  every  paragraph  of 
yours,  by  echoing  every  sentiment,  like 
the  faithful  Commons  of  Great  Britain  in 
Parliament  assembled,  answering  a  speech 
from  the  best  of  kings  !  I  express  myself 
in  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  and  may  per- 
haps be  guilty  of  neglecting  some  of  your 
kind  inquiries ;  but  not,  from  your  very 
odd  reason,  that  I  do  not  read  your  letters. 
All  your  epistles  for  several  months  have 
cost  me  nothing,  except  a  swelling  throb 
of  gratitude,  or  a  deep  felt  sentiment  of 
veneration. 

Mrs.  Burns,  Madam,  is  the  identical 
woman 


When  she  first  found  herself"  as  women 
wish  to  be  who  love  their  lords,"  as  I 
loved  her  nearly  to  distraction,  we  took 
steps  for  a  private  marriage.  Her  pa- 
rents got  the  hint :  and  not  only  forbade 
me  her  company  and  the  house,  but,  on 
my  rumoured  West-Indian  voyage,  got  a 


126 


LETTERS. 


warrant  to  put  me  in  jail  tiTl  I  should  find 
security  in  my  about-to-be  paternal  rela- 
tion. You  know  my  lucky  reverse  of  for- 
tune. On  my  eclatant  return  to  Mauch- 
line,  I  was  made  very  welcome  to  visit 
my  girl.  The  usual  consequences  began 
to  betray  her ;  and  as  I  was  at  that  time 
laid  up  a  cripple  in  Edinburgh,  she  was 
turned,  literally  turned  out  of  doors:  and 
I  wrote  to  a  friend  to  shelter  her  till  my 
return,  when  our  marriage  was  declared. 
Her  happiness  or  misery  were  in  my 
hands;  and  who  could  triile  with  such  a 
deposite  ? 


I  can  easily  fancy  a  more  agreeable 
companion  for  my  journey  of  life,  but, 
upon  my  honour,  I  have  never  seen  the 
individual  instance 


Circumstanced  as  I  am,  I  could  never 
have  got  a  female  partner  for  life,  who 
could  have  entered  into  my  favourite  stu- 
dies, relished  my  favourite  authors,  &c. 
without  probably  entailing  on  me,  at  the 
same  time,  expensive  living,  fantastic  ca- 
price, perhaps  apish  affectation,  with  all 
the  other  blessed  boarding-school  acquire- 
ments, which  (pardonnez  moi,  Madame,) 
are  sometimes,  to  be  found  among  females 
of  the  upper  ranks,  but  almost  univer- 
sally pervade  the  misses  of  the  would-be- 
gentry. 


T  like  your  way  in  your  church-yard 
lucubrations.  Thoughts  that  are  the 
spontaneous  result  of  accidental  situat  ions, 
either  respecting  health,  place,  or  compa- 
ny, have  often  a  strength  and  always  an 
originality,  that  would  in  vain  be  looked 
for  in  fancied  circumstances  and  studied 
paragraphs.  For  me,  I  have  often  thought 
of  keeping  a  letter,  in  progression,  by  me, 
to  send  you  when  the  sheet  was  written 
out.  Now  I  talk  of  sheets,  I  must  tell 
you,  my  reason  for  writing  to  you  on  pa- 
per of  this  kind,  is  my  pruriency  of  wri- 
ting to  you  at  large.  A  page  of  post  is  on 
such  a  dissocial  narrow-minded  scale  that 
I  cannot  abide  it ;  and  double  letters,  at 
least  in  my  miscellaneous  reverie  manner, 
are  a  monstrous  tax  in  a  close  correspon- 
dence. 


No.  LV. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

Ellisland,  16th,  August,  1788. 

I  am  in  a  fine  disposition,  my  honour- 
ed friend,  to  send  you  an  elegiac  epistle ; 
and  want  only  genius  to  make  it  quite 
Shcnstonian. 

"  Why  droops  my  heart  with  fancied  woes  forlorn? 
Why  sinks  my  soul  beneath  each  wint'ry  sky  1" 


My  increasing  cares  in  this,  as  yet, 
strange  country — gloomy  conjectures  in 
the  dark  vista  of  futurity — consciousness 
of  my  own  inability  for  the  struggle  of 
the  world — my  broadened  mark  to  mis- 
fortune in  a  wife  and  children  ; — I  could 
indulge  these  reflections,  till  my  humour 
should  ferment  into  the  most  acid  chagrin, 
that  would  corrode  the  very  thread  of  life. 

To  counterwork  these  baneful  feelings, 
I  have  sat  down  to  write  to  you ;  as  I  de- 
clare upon  my  soul,  I  always  find  that 
the  most  sovereign  balm  for  my  wounded 
spirit. 

I  was  yesterday  at  Mr. 's  to  din- 
ner for  the  first  time.  My  reception  was 
quite  to  my  mind :  from  the  lady  of  the 
house,  quite  flattering.  She  sometimes 
hits  on  a  couplet  or  two,  impromptu..  She 
repeated  one  or  two  to  the  admiration  of 
all  present.  My  suffrage  as  a  professional 
man,  was  expected :  I  for  once  went  ago- 
nizing over  the  belly  of  my  conscience. 
Pardon  me,  ye,  my  adored  household  gods 
— Independence  of  Spirit,  and  integrity 
of  Soul  !  In  the  course  of  conversation, 
Johnson's  Musical  Museum,  a  collection 
of  Scottish  songs  with  the  music,  was 
talked  of.  We  got  a  song  on  the  harp- 
sichord, beginning, 


"  Raving  winds  around  her  blowing."* 

The  air  was  much  admired  ;  the  lady  of 
the  house  asked  me  whose  were  the  words; 
"  Mine,  Madam — they  are  indeed  my  very 
best  verses:"  she  took  not  the  smallest 
notice  of  them  !  The  old  Scottish  pro- 
verb says  well,  "  king's  caff  is  better  than 
itlier  folk's  corn."  I  was  going  to  make 
a  New  Testament  quotation  about  "  cast- 
ing pearls ;"  but  that  would  he  too  viru- 

*  See  rooms,  p.  107. 


LETTERS. 


127 


lent,  for  the  lady  is  actually  a  woman  of 
sense  and  taste. 


After  all  that  has  been  said  on  the  other 
side  of  the  question,  man  is  by  no  menus 
a  bappy  creature.  I  do  not  speak  of  the 
selected  few  favoured  by  partial  heaven  ; 
whose  souls  are  turned  to  gladness,  amid 
riches  and  honours,  and  prudence  and  wis- 
dom. I  speak  of  the  neglected  many, 
whose  nerves,  whose  sinews,  whose  days, 
are  sold  to  the  minions  of  fortune. 

If  I  thought  you  had  never  seen  it,  I 
would  transcribe  for  you  a  stanza  of  an 
old  Scottish  ballad,,  called  The  I. if e  and 
Age  of  Mem ;  beginning  thus  : 

"  "Twas  in  the  sixteenth  hunder  year 
Of  God  and  fifty-three, 

Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  us  dear, 
As  writings  testifie." 

I  had  an  old  grand-uncle,  with  whom 
my  mother  lived  a  while  in  her  girlish 
years  ;  the  good  old  man,  for  such  he  was, 
was  long  blind  ere  he  died,  during  which 
time,  his  highest  enjoyment  was  to  sit 
down  and  cry,  while  my  mother  would 
sing  the  simple  old  song  of  The  Life  and 
Age  of  Man. 

It  is  this  way  of  thinking,  it  is  these 
melancholy  truths,  that  make  religion  so 
precious  to  the  poor,  miserable  children 
of  men — if  it  is  a  mere  phantom,  existing 
only  in  the  heated  imagination  of  enthu- 
siasm, 

"  What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  the  lie?" 

My  idle  reasonings  sometimes  make 
me  a  little  sceptical,  but  the  necessities 
of  my  heart  always  give  the  cold  philoso- 
phizings  the  lie.  Who  looks  for  the  heart 
weaned  from  earth  ;  the  soul  affianced  to 
her  God ;  the  correspondence  fixed  with 
heaven ;  the  pious  supplication  and  de- 
vout thanksgiving,  constant,  as  the  vicis- 
situdes of  even  and  morn  ;  who  thinks  to 
meet  with  these  in  the  court,  the  palace, 
in  the  glare  of  public  life?  No:  to  find 
thorn  in  their  precious  importance  and  di- 
vine efficacy,  we  must  search  among  the 
obscure  recesses  of  disappointment,  afflic- 
tion, poverty,  and  distress. 

I  am  sure,  dear  Madam,  you  are  now 
more  than  pleased  with  the  length  of  my 


letters.  I  return  to  Ayrshire  middle  of 
next  week  ;  and  it  quickens  my  pace  to 
think  thai  there  will  be  a  letter  from  you 
waiting  me  there.  I  must  be  here  again 
very  soon  for  my  harvest 


No.  LVI. 
TO  R.  GRAHAM,  ESQ.  OF  FINTRY. 


When  I  had  the  honour  of  being  in- 
troduced to  you  at  Athole-house,  I  did  not 
think  so  soon  of  asking  a  favour  of  you. 
When  Lear,  in  Shakspeare,  asks  old  Kent 
why  he  wishes  to  be  in  his  service,  he  an- 
swers, "  Because  you  have  that  in  your 
face  which  I  could  like  to  call  master." 
For  some  such  reason,  Sir,  do  I  now  so- 
licit your  patronage.  You  know,  I  dare 
say,  of  an  application  I  lately  made  to 
your  Board  to  be  admitted  an  officer  of 
excise.  I  have,  according  to  form,  been 
examined  by  a  supervisor,  and  to-day  I 
gave  in  his  certificate,  with  a  request  for 
an  order  for  instructions.  In  this  affair, 
if  I  succeed,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  but  too 
much  need  a  patronising  friend.  Pro- 
priety of  conduct  as  a  man,  and  fidelity 
and  attention  as  an  officer,  I  dare  engage 
for  :  but  with  any  thing  like  business, 
except  manual  labour,  I  am  totally  unac- 
quainted. 


I  had  intended  to  have  closed  my  late 
appearance  on  the  stage  of  life  in  the 
character  of  a  country  farmer;  but,  after 
discharging  some  filial  and  fraternalclaims, 
I  find  I  could  only  fight  for  existence  in 
that  miserable  manner,  which  I  have  lived 
to  see  throw  a  venerable  parent  into  the 
jaws  of  a  jail :  whence  death,  the  poor 
man's  last  and  often  best  friend,  rescued 
him. 

I  know,  Sir,  that  to  need  your  goodness 
is  to  have  a  claim  on  it ;  may  I  therefore 
beg  your  patronage  to  forward  me  in  this 
affair,  till  I  be  appointed  to  a  division, 
where,  by  the  help  of  rigid  economy,  I 
will  try  to  support  that  independence  so 
dear  to  my  soul,  but  which  has  been  too 
often  so  distant  from  my  situation.* 

*  Bere  followed  r  he  poetical  part  of  the  Epistle,  given 
in  thf  Poems,  p.  7U. 


128 


LETTERS. 


No.  LVII. 
TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Mauchline,  1st  October,  1788. 

I  have  been  here  in  this  country 
about  three  days,  and  all  that  time  my 
chief  reading  has  been  the  "  Address  to 
Loch-Lomond,"  you  were  so  obliging  as 
to  send  to  me.  Were  I  empannelled  one 
of  the  author's  jury  to  determine  his  cri- 
minality respecting  the  sin  of  poesy,  my 
verdict  should  be  "  guilty !  A  poet  of 
Nature's  making."  It  is  an  excellent 
method  for  improvement,  and  what  I  be- 
lieve every  poet  docs,  to  place  some  fa- 
vourite classic  author,  in  his  own  walk  of 
study  and  composition,  before  him  as  a 
modeL  Though  your  author  had  not 
mentioned  the  name  I  could  have,  at  half 
a  glance,  guessed  his  model  to  be  Thom- 
son. Will  my  brother-poet  forgive  me, 
if  I  venture  to  hint,  that  his  imitation  of 
that  immortal  bard  is,  in  two  or  three  pla- 
ces, rather  more  servile  than  such  a  ge- 
nius as  his  required — e.  g. 

To  sooth  the  madding  passions  all  to  peace. 

ADDRESS. 

To  sooth  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace. 

THOMSON. 

I  think  the  Address  is,  in  simplicity, 
harmony,  and  elegance  of  versification, 
fully  equal  to  the  Seasons.  Like  Thom- 
son, too,  he  has  looked  into  nature  for 
himself.;  you  meet  with  no  copied  de- 
scription. One  particular  criticism  I 
made  at  first  reading;  in  no  one  instance 
has  he  said  too  much.  He  never  flasrs  in 
his  progress,  but,  like  a  true  poet  of  Na- 
ture's making,  kindles  in  his  course.  His 
beginning  is  simple  and  modest,  as  if  dis- 
trustful of  the  strength  of  his  pinion; 
only,  I  do  not  altogether  like — 

"  Truth, 
The  soul  of  every  song  that's  nobly  great." 

Fiction  is  the  soul  of  many  a  song  that 
is  nobly  great.  Perhaps  I  am  wrong : 
this  may  be  but  a  prose-criticism.  Is 
not  the  phrase,  in  line  7,  page  G.  "  Great 
Lake,"  too  much  vulgarized  by  every-day 
language,  for  so  sublime  a  poem  ? 

"Great  mass  of  waters,  theme  for  nobler  sona," 

is  uprhaps  no  emendation.     His  enume- 
ration of  a  comparison  with  other  lakes 


is  at  once  harmonious  and  poetic.     Every 
reader's  ideas  must  sweep  the 

"  Winding  margin  of  an  hundred  miles." 

The  perspective  that  follows  mountains 
blue — the  imprisoned  billows  beating  in 
vain — the  wooded  isles — the  digression 
on  the  yew-tree — "  Ben-Lomond's  lofty 
cloud  envelop'd  head,"  &c.  are  beautiful. 
A  thunder-storm  is  a  subject  which  has 
been  often  tried  ;  yet  our  poet  in  his  grand 
picture,  has  interjected  a  circumstance, 
so  far  as  I  know,  entirely  original : 

"The  ptoom 
Dcep-seam'd  with  frequent  streaks  of  moving  fire." 

In  his  preface  to  the  storm,  "  The  glens, 
how  dark  between  !"  is  noble  highland 
landscape!  The  "rain  ploughing  the 
red  mould,  too,  is  beautifully  fancied. 
Ben-Lomond's  "lofty  pathless  top,"  is  a 
good  expression ;  and  the  surrounding 
view  from  it  is  truly  great :  the 

"  Silver  mrst 
Beneath  the  beaming  sun," 

is  well  described  :  and  here  he  has  con- 
trived to  enliven  his  poem  with  a  little  of 
that  passion  which  bids  fair,  I  think,  to 
usurp  the  modern  muses  altogether.  I 
know  not  how  far  this  episode  is  a  beauty 
upon  the  whole  ;  but  the  swain's  wish  to 
carry  "  some  faint  idea  of  the  vision  bright," 
to  entertain  her  "  partial  listening  ear," 
is  a  pretty  thought.  But,  in  my  opinion, 
the  most  beautiful  passages  in  the  whole 
poem  are  the  fowls  crowding,  in  wintry 
frosts,  to  Loch-Lomond's  "  hospitable 
flood;"  their  wheeling  round,  their  light- 
ing,  mixing,  diving,  &c. ;  and  the  jrlo- 
rious  description  of  the  sportsman.  This 
last  is  equal  to  any  thing  in  the  Seasons. 
The  idea  of "  the  floating  tribes  distant 
seen,  far  glistering  to  the  moon,"  provok- 
ing his  eye  as  he  is  obliged  to  leave  them, 
is  a  noble  ray  of  poetic  genius.  "  The 
howling  winds,"  the  "  hideous  roar"  of 
"  the  white  cascades,"  are  all  in  the  same 
style. 

I  forget  that,  while  I  am  thus  holding 
forth,  with  the  heedless  warmth  of  an  en- 
thusiast, I  am  perhaps  tiring  you  with 
nonsense.  I  must,  however,  mention, 
that  the  last  verse  of  the  sixteenth  page 
is  one  of  the  most  elegant  compliments  I 
have  ever  seen.  I  must  likewise  notice 
that,  beautiful  paragraph,  beginning, 
"  The   gleaming  lake,"  &c.     I  dare  not 


LETTERS. 


120 


go  into  the  particular  beauties  of  the  two 
lust  paragraphs,  but  they  are  admirably 
line,  and  truly  Ossianic. 

1  must  bog  your  pardon  for  this  length- 
ened scrawl.  1  had  no  idea  of  it  when  I 
began — I  should  like  to  know  who  the  au- 
thor is;  but,  whoever  he  be,  please  pre- 
sent him  with  my  grateful  thanks  for  the 
entertainment  he  has  afforded  me.* 

A  friend  of  mine  desired  me  to  commis- 
sion for  him  two  books,  Letters  on  the  Re- 
ligion essential  to  Man,  a  book  you  sent 
nit'  before;  and,  The  World  Unmasked, 
or  the  Philosopher  the  greatest  Cheat.  Send 
me  them  by  the  first  opportunity.  The 
Bible  you  sent  me  is  truly  elegant.  I 
only  wish  it  had  been  in  two  volumes. 


No.  LVIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,  AT  MOREHAM 
MAINS. 

Mauchline,  \3th  November,  1788. 

MADAM, 

I  had  the  very  great  pleasure  of  di- 
ning at  Dunlop  yesterday.  Men  are  said 
to  Hatter  women  because  they  are  weak  ; 
if  it  is  so,  poets  must  be  weaker  still ;  for 
Misses  R.  and  K.,  and  Miss  G.  M'K.,  with 
their  flattering  attentions  and  artful  com- 
pliments, absolutely  turned  my  head.  I 
own  they  did  not  lard  me  over  as  many  a 
poet  does  his  patron  *  *  *  * 
but  they  so  intoxicated  me  with  their  sly 
insinuations  and  delicate  innuendoes  of 
compliment,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  a 
lucky  recollection,  how  much  additional 
weight  and  lustre  your  good  opinion  and 
friendship  must  give  me  in  that  circle,  I 
had  certainly  looked  upon  myself  as  a  per- 
son of  no  small  consequence.  I  dare  not 
say  one  word  how  much  I  was  charmed 
with  the  Major's  friendly  welcome,  ele- 
gant manner,  and  acute  remark,  lest  I 
should  be  thought  to  balance  my  oriental- 
isms of  applause  over  against  the  finest 

*  The  poem,  entitled,  An  Address  to  I,nc!t- T.omond, 
is  said  to  be  written  by  a  gentleman,  now  one  of  the 
Masters  of  the  High- school  at  Edinburgh  ;   ami  the 

same  who  translated  the  beautiful  story  of  the  Paria,  as 
published  in  the  Bceoi  Dr.  Anderson.    E. 


quey*  in  Ayrshire,  which  ho  made  me  a 
present  of  to  help  and  adorn  my  farm- 
stock.  As  it  was  on  Ilallowday,  I  am  de- 
termined annually,  as  that  day  returns,  to 
decorate  her  horns  with  an  ode  of  grati- 
tude to  the  family  of  Dunlop. 


So  soon  as  I  know  of  your  arrival  at 
Dunlop,  I  will  take  the  first  conveniency 
to  dedicate  a  day,  or  perhaps  two,  to  you 
and  friendship,  under  the  guarantee  of  the 
Major's  hospitality.  There  will  be  soon 
threescore  and  ten  miles  of  permanent 
distance  between  us;  and  now  that  your 
friendship  and  friendly  correspondence  is 
entwisted  with  the  heart-strings  of  my 
enjoyment  of  life,  I  must  indulge  myself 
in  a  happy  day  of  "  The  feast  of  reason 
and  the  flow  of  soul." 


NO.  LIX. 

rpQ    *      *      * 


November  8,  1788. 


SIR, 


Notwithstanding  the  opprobrious 
epithets  with  which  some  of  our  philoso- 
phers and  gloomy  sectaries  have  brand- 
ed our  nature — the  principle  of  universal 
selfishness,  the  proneness  to  all  evil,  they 
have  given  us;  still  the  detestation  in 
which  inhumanity  to  the  distressed,  or  in- 
solence to  the  fallen,  are  held  by  all  man- 
kind, shows  that  they  are  not  natives  of 
the  human  heart.  Even  the  unhappy 
partner  of  our  kind,  who  is  undone,  the 
bitter  consequence  of  his  follies  or  his 
crimes ; — who  but  sympathizes  with  the 
miseries  of  this  ruined  profligate  brother? 
we  forget  the  injuries,  and  feel  for  the 
man. 

I  went,  last  Wednesday  to  my  parish- 
church,  most  cordially  to  join  in  grateful 
acknowledgments  to  the  Author  of  am. 
Good,  for  the  consequent  blessings  of  the 
glorious  Revolution.  To  that  auspicious 
event  we  owe  no  less  than  our  liberties, 
civil  and  religious,  to  it  we  are  likewise 
indebted  for  the  present  Royal  Family, 
the  ruling  features  of  whose  administra- 
tion have  ever  been  mildness  to  the  sub- 
ject, and  tenderness  of  his  rights. 

*  Heifer. 


130 


LETTERS. 


Bred  and  educated  in  revolution  prin- 
ciples, the  principles  of  reason  and  com- 
mon sense,  it  could  not  be  any  silly  politi- 
cal prejudice  which  made  my  heart  revolt 
at  the  harsh,  abusive  manner  in  which  the 
reverend  gentleman  mentioned  the  House 
of  Stewart,  and  which,  I  am  afraid,  was 
too  much  the  language  of  the  day.  We 
may  rejoice  sufficiently  in  our  deliverance 
from  past  evils,  without  cruelly  raking  up 
the  ashes  of  those  whose  misfortune  it 
was,  perhaps  as  much  as  their  crime,  to 
be  the  authors  of  those  evils ;  and  we  may 
bless  God  for  all  his  goodness  to  us  as  a 
nation,  without,  at  the  same  time,  cursing 
a  few  ruined,  powerless  exiles,  who  only 
harboured  ideas,  and  made  attempts,  that 
most  of  us  would  have  done  had  we  been 
in  their  situation. 

"  The  bloody  and  tyrannical  house  of 
Stewart,"  may  be  said  with  propriety  and 
justice  when  compared  with  the  present 
Royal  Family,  and  the  sentiments  of  our 
days ;  but  is  there  no  allowance  to  be 
made  for  the  manners  of  the  time  ?  Were 
the  royal  contemporaries  of  the  Stewarts 
more  attentive  to  their  subjects'  rights? 
Might  not  the  epithets  of  "  bloody  and 
tyrannical,"  be  with  at  least  equal  justice 
applied  to  the  House  of  Tudor,  of  York, 
or  any  other  of  their  predecessors  ? 

The  simple  state  of  the  case,  Sir,  seems 
to  be  this  : — At  that  period,  the  science 
of  government,  the  knowledge  of  the  true 
relation  between  king  and  subject,  was, 
like  other  sciences  and  other  knowledge, 
just  in  its  infancy,  emerging  from  dark 
ages  of  ignorance  and  barbarity. 

The  Stewarts  only  contended  for  pre- 
rogatives which  they  knew  their  prede- 
cessors enjoyed,  and  which  they  saw  their 
contemporaries  enjoying;  but  these  pre- 
rogatives were  inimical  to  the  happiness 
of  a  nation  and  the  rights  of  subjects. 

In  this  contest  between  prince  and  peo- 
ple, the  consequence  of  that  light  of  sci- 
ence which  had  lately  dawned  over  Eu- 
rope, the  monarch  of  France,  for  exam- 
ple, was  victorious  over  the  struggling 
liberties  of  his  people ;  with  us,  luckily, 
the  monarch  failed,  and  his  unwarranta- 
ble pretensions  fell  a  sacrifice  to  our  rights 
and  happiness.  Whether  it  was  owing  to 
the  wisdom  of  leading  individuals,  or  to 
the  justling  of  parties,  I  cannot  pretend 
to  determine ;  but  likewise,  happily  for 
us,  the  kingly  power  was  shifted  into  an- 


other branch  of  the  family,  who,  as  they 
owed  the  throne  solely  to  the  call  of  a 
free  people,  could  claim  nothing  inconsis- 
tent with  the  covenanted  terms  which 
placed  them  there. 

The  Stewarts  have  been  condemned 
and  laughed  at  for  the  folly  and  impracti 
cability  of  their  attempts  in  1715  and 
1745.  That  they  failed,  I  bless  God  ;  but 
cannot  join  in  the  ridicule  against  them. 
Who  does  not  know  that  the  abilities  or 
defects  of  leaders  and  commanders  are 
often  hidden,  until  put  to  the  touchstone 
of  exigency ;  and  that  there  is  a  caprice 
of  fortune,  an  omnipotence  in  particular 
accidents  and  conjunctures  of  circumstan- 
ces, which  exalt  us  as  heroes,  or  brand  us 
as  madmen,  just  as  they  are  for  or  against 
us  ? 

Man,  Mr.  Publisher,  is  a  strange,  weak, 
inconsistent  being :  who  would  believe, 
Sir,  that  in  this,  our  Augustan  age  of 
liberality  and  refinement,  while  we  seem 
so  justly  sensible  and  jealous  of  our  rights 
and  liberties,  and  animated  with  such  in- 
dignation against  the  very  memory  of 
those  who  would  have  subverted  them — 
that  a  certain  people  under  our  national 
protection,  should  complain,  not  against 
our  monarch  and  a  few  favourite  advisers, 
but  against  our  whole  legislative  body, 
for  similar  oppression,  and  almost  in  the 
very  same  terms,  as  our  forefathers  did  of 
the  House  of  Stewart !  I  will  not,  I  can- 
not enter  into  the  merits  of  the  cause,  but 
I  dare  say,  the  American  Congress,  in 
1776,  will  be  allowed  to  be  as  able  and  as 
enlightened  as  the  English  Convention 
was  in  1688  ;  and  that  their  posterity  will 
celebrate  the  centenary  of  their  deliver- 
ance from  us,  as  duly  and  sincerely  as  we 
do  ours  from  the  oppressive  measures  of 
the  wrong-headed  House  of  Stewart. 

To  conclude,  Sir :  let  every  man  who 
has  a  tear  for  the  many  miseries  incident 
to  humanity,  feel  for  a  family  illustrious 
as  any  in  Europe,  and  unfortunate  beyond 
historic  precedent ;  and  let  every  Briton, 
(and  particularly  every  Scotsman,)  who 
ever  looked  with  reverential  pity  on  the 
dotage  of  a  parent,  cast  a  veil  over  the 
fatal  mistakes  of  the  kings  of  his  fore- 
fathers.* 

•  This  letter  was  sent  to  the  publisher  of  some  news- 
paper, probabjy  thfl  publisher  of  the  Edinburgh  Even- 
ing Courant. 


LETTERS. 


131 


No.  LX. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  \lth  Dec.  1788. 

MY  PEAR,  HONOURED  FRIEND, 

Yours,  dated   Edinburgh,   which  I 
have  just  read,  makes  me  very  unhappy. 
"  Almost  blind,   and   wholly  deaf,"  are 
melancholy  news  of  human  nature ;  but 
when  told  of  a  much-loved  and  honoured 
friend,  they  carry  misery  in  the  sound. 
Goodness  on  your  part,  and  gratitude  on 
mine,  began  a  tie,  which  has  gradually 
and  strongly  entwisted  itself  among  the 
dearest  cords  of  my  bosom;  and  I  tremble 
at  the  omens  of  your  late  and  present  ail- 
ing habits    and  shattered  health.      You 
miscalculate  matters  widely,  when  you 
forbid  my  waiting  on  you,  lest  it  should 
hurt  my  wordly  concerns.  My  small  scale 
of  farming  is  exceedingly  more  simple  and 
easy  than  what  you  have  lately  seen  at 
Moreham  Mains.     But  be  that  as  it  may, 
the  heart  of  the  man,  and  the  fancy  of 
the  poet,  are  the  two  grand  considera- 
tions for  which  I  live  :  if  miry  ridges  and 
dirty  dunghills  are  to  engross  the  best 
part  of  the  functions  of  my  soul  immor- 
tal, I  had  better  been  a  rook  or  a  mag- 
pie at  once,  and  then  I  should  not  have 
been  plagued  with  any  ideas  superior  to 
breaking  of  clods,  and  picking  up  grubs: 
not  to  mention  barn-door  cocks  or  mal- 
lards, creatures  with  which  I  could  al- 
most exchange  lives  at  any  time — If  you 
continue  so  deaf,  I  am  afraid  a  visit  will 
be  no  great  pleasure  to  either  of  us;  but 
if  I  hear  you  are  got  so  well  again  as  to 
be  able  to  relish  conversation,  look  you  to 
it,  Madam,  for  I  will  make  my  threaten- 
ings  good.     I  am  to  be  at  the  new-year- 
day  fair  of  Ayr,  and  by  all  that  is  sacred 
in  the  word  Friend !  I  will  come  and  see 
you. 


Your  meeting,  which  you  so  well  de- 
scribe, with  your  old  school-fellow  and 
friend,  was  truly  interesting.  Out  upon 
the  ways  of  the  world  ! — They  spoil  these 
"social  offsprings  of  the  heart."  Two 
veterans  of  the  "  men  of  the  world"  would 
have  met  with  little  more  heart-workings 
than  two  old  hacks  worn  out  on  the  road. 
Apropos,  is  not  the  Scotch  phrase, 
"  Auld  lang  syne,"  exceedingly  expres- 
sive ?   There  is  an  old  song  and  tune  which 


know  I  am  an  enthusiast  in  old  Scotch 
songs  :  I  shall  give  you  the  verses  on  the 
other  sheet,  as  I  suppose  Mr.  Kerr  will 
Have  you  the  postage.* 

Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of  the 
Heaven-inspired  poet  who  composed  this 
glorious  fragment !  There  is  more  of  the 
fire  of  native  genius  in  it  than  half  a  do- 
zen of  modern  English  Bacchanalians. 
Now  I  am  on  my  hobby-horse,  I  cannot 
help  inserting  two  other  stanzas  which 
please  me  mightily.f 


has  often  thrilled  through  my  soul. 


You 


No.  LXI. 
TO  MISS  DA  VIES. 

A  young  lady  who  liad  heard  he  had  been  making  a 
Ballad  on  her,  enclosing  thai  Ballad. 

December,  1788. 

MADAM, 

I  understand  my  very  worthy  neigh- 
bour, Mr.  Riddle,  has  informed  you  that  I 
have  made  you  the  subject  of  some  verses. 
There  is   something  so   provoking  in  the 
idea  of  being  the  burden  of  a  ballad,  that 
I  do  not  think  Job  or  Moses,  though  such 
patterns  of  patience  and  meekness,  could 
have  resisted  the  curiosity  to  know  what 
that  ballad  was  :  so  my  worthy  friend  has 
done  me  a  mischief,  which,  I  dare  say,  he 
never  intended ;  and  reduced  me  to  the 
unfortunate  alternative  of  leaving  your 
curiosity  ungratified,  or  else  disgusting 
you   with  foolish  verses,  the  unfinished 
production  of  a    random    moment,   and 
never  meant  to  have  met  your  ear.    I  have 
heard  or  read  somewhere  of  a  gentleman, 
who  had  some  genius,  much  eccentricity, 
and  very  considerable  dexterity  with  his 
pencil.     In  the  accidental  group  of  life 
into  which  one  is  thrown,  wherever  this 
gentleman  met  with  a  character  in  a  more 
than  ordinary  degree  congenial   to  his 
heart,  he  used  to  steal  a  sketch  of  the 
face,  merely,  as  he  said,  as  a  nota  bene 
to  point  out  the  agreeable  recollection  to 
his  memory.    What  this  gentleman's  pen- 
cil was  to  him,  is  my  muse  to  me  :  and 
the  verses  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  send 
you  are  a  memento  exactly  of  the  same 
kind  that  he  indulged  in. 

It  may  be  moro  owing  to  the  fastidious- 
ness of  my  caprice,  than  the  delicacy  of 

*  Here  follows  the  song  of  Auld  lang  syne,  as  printed 
in  the  poems.    E. 

t  Here  followed  the  song,  My  Bonnie  Mary.  Poems, 
p.  37. 


132 


LETTERS. 


my  taste,  but  T  am  so  often  tired,  disgust- 
ed, and  hurt,  with  the  msipidity,  affecta- 
tion, and  pride  of  mankind,  that  when  I 
meet  with  a  person  "  after  my  own  heart," 
[  positively  feel  what  an  orthodox  pro- 
test,-int.  would  call  a  species  of  idolatry, 
which  acts  on  my  fancy  like  inspiration  ; 
and  t  can  no  more  desist  rhyming  on  the 
impulse,  than  an  Eolian  harp  can  refuse 
its  tones  to  the  streaming  air.  A  distich 
or  two  would  be  the  consequence,  though 
the  object  which  hit  my  fancy  were  gray- 
bearded  age :  but  where  my  theme  is 
youth  and  beauty,  a  young  lady  whose 
personal  charms,  wit,  and  sentiment,  are 
equally  striking  and  unaffected,  by  hea- 
vens! though  1  had  lived  threescore  years 
a  married  man,  and  threescore  years  be- 
fore I  was  a  married  man,  my  imagination 
would  hallow  the  very  idea ;  and  I  am 
truly  sorry  that  the  enclosed  stanzas  have 
done  such  poor  justice  to  such  a  subject. 


No.  LXII. 
FROM  MR.  G.  BURNS. 

Mossgiel,  1st  Jan.  1789. 

DEAR  BROTHER, 

I  have  just  finished  my  new-year's- 
day  breakfast  in  the  usual  form,  which 
naturally  makes  me  call  to  mind  the  days 
of  former  years,  and  the  society  in  which 
we  used  to  begin  them  :  and  when  I  look 
at  our  family  vicissitudes,  "  thro'  the  dark 
postern  of  time  long  elapsed,"  I  cannot 
help  remarking  to  you,  my  dear  brother, 
how  good  the  God  of  Seasons  is  to  us, 
and  that,  however  some  clouds  may  seem 
to  lower  over  the  portion  of  time  before 
us,  we  have  great  reason  to  hope  that  all 
will  turn  out  well. 

Your  mother  and  sisters,  with  Robert 
the  second,  join  me  in  the  compliments  of 
the  season  to  you  and  Mrs.  Burns,  and 
beg  you  will  remember  us  in  the  same 
manner  to  William,  the  first  time  you 
see  him. 

I  am,  dear  brother,  yours, 

GILBERT  BURNS. 


No.  LXIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  New-Ycar-Day  Morning. 

This,  dear   Madam,  is  a  morning  of 

wishes  ;  and  would  to  God  that  I  came 


under  the  apostle  James's  description  !— 
the  prayer  of  a  righteous  man  availeth 
much.  In  that  case,  Madam,  you  should 
welcome  in  a  your  full  of  blessings:  every 
tiling  that  obstructs  or  disturbs  tranquilli- 
ty and  self-enjoyment,  should  be  removed 
and  every  pleasure  that  frail  humanity 
can  taste  should  be  yours.  I  own  myself 
so  little  a  presbyterian,  that  I  approve  of 
set  times  and  seasons  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary acts  of  devotion,  for  breaking  in  on 
that  habituated  routine  of  life  and  thought 
which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our  existence 
to  a  kind  of  instinct,  or  even  sometimes, 
and  with  some  minds,  to  a  state  very  little 
superior  to  mere  machinery. 

This  day,  the  first  Sunday  of  May,  a 
breezy  blue-skyed  noon,  some  time  about 
the  beginning,  and  a  hoary  morning  and 
calm  sunny  day  about  the  end  of  autumn; 
— these,  time  out  of  mind,  have  been  with 
me  a  kind  of  holiday. 


I  believe  I  owe  this  to  that  glorious  pa- 
per in  the  Spectator,  "  The  Vision  of 
Mirza;"  a  piece  that  struck  my  young 
fancy  before  I  was  capable  of  fixing  an 
idea  to  a  word  of  three  syllables,  "  On 
the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers,  I 
always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed 
myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devo- 
tions, I  ascended  the  high  hill  of  Bagdat, 
in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  me- 
ditation and  prayer." 

We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing, 
of  the  substance  or  structure  of  our  souls, 
so  cannot  account  for  those  seeming  ca- 
prices in  them,  that  one  should  be  par- 
ticularly pleased  with  this  thing,  or  struck 
with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a  different 
cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  impression. 
I  have  some  favourite  flowers  in  spring, 
among  which  are  the  mountain-daisy,  the 
hare-bell,  the  fox-glove,  the  wild-brier- 
rose,  the  budding-birch,  and  the  hoary- 
hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang  over  with 
particular  delight.  I  never  heard  the 
loud  solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a 
summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence 
of  a  troop  of  gray  plover  in  an  autumnal 
morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of 
soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or 
poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what 
can  this  be  owing.  Are  we  a  piece  of 
machinery,  which,  like  the  Eolian  harp, 
passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the  pass- 


LETTERS. 


133 


ing  accident  ?  Or  do  these  workings 
argue  something  within  us  above  the  trod- 
deil  clod?  I  own  myself  partial  to  such 
proofs  of  those  awful  and  important  re- 
alities— a  God  that  made  all  things — 
man's  immaterial  and  immortal  nature — 
and  a  world  of  weal  or  wo  beyond  death 
and  the  grave. 


No.  LXIV. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ell  island,  near  Dumfries,  4th  Jan.  1709. 

6IR, 

As  often  as  I  think  of  writing  to 
you,  which  has  been  three  or  four  times 
every  week  these  six  months,  it  gives  me 
something  so  like  the  look  of  an  ordinary 
sized  statue  offering  at  a  conversation 
with  the  Rhodian  colossus,  that  my  mind 
misgives  me,  and  the  affair  always  mis- 
carries somewhere  between  purpose  and 
resolve.  I  have,  at  last,  got  some  busi- 
ness with  you,  and  business-letters  are 
written  by  the  style-book.  I  say  my  busi- 
ness is  with  you,  Sir,  for  you  never  had 
any  with  me,  except  the  business  that  be- 
nevolence has  in  the  mansion  of  poverty. 

The  character  and  employment  of  a 
poet  were  formerly  my  pleasure,  but  are 
now  my  pride.  I  know  that  a  very  great 
deal  of  my  late  eclat  was  owing  to  the  singu- 
larity of  my  situation,  and  the  honest  prc- 
judice  of  Scotsmen;  but  still,  as  I  said  in 
the  preface  to  my  first  edition,  I  do  look 
upon  myself  as  having  some  pretensions 
from  Nature  to  the  poetic  character.  I 
have  not  a  doubt  but  the  knack,  the  apti- 
tude to  learn  the  Muses'  trade,  is  a  gift 
bestowed  by  Him,  "  who  forms  the  secret 
bias  of  the  soul ;" — but  I  as  firmly  believe, 
that  excellence  in  the  profession  is  the 
fruit  of  industry,  labour,  attention,  and 
pains.  At  least  I  am  resolved  to  try  my 
doctrine  by  the  test  of  experience.  Ano- 
ther  appearance  from  the  press  I  put  off 
to  a  very  distant  day,  a  day  that  may 
never  arrive — but  poesy  I  am  determined 
to  prosecute  with  all  my  vigour.  Nature 
has  given  very  few,  if  any,  of  the  profes- 
sion, the  talents  of  shining  in  every  spe- 
cies of  composition.  I  shall  try  (for  until 
trial  it  is  impossible  to  know)  whether  she 
has    qualified   me  to  shine  in   any  one. 


The  worst  of  it  Is,  by  the  time  one  has 
finished  a  piece,  it  has  been  so  often  view- 
i  (1  and  reviewed  before  the  mental  eye, 
that  one  loses,  in  a  good  measure,  the 
powers  of  critical  discrimination.  Here 
the  best  criterion  I  know  is  a  friend — not 
only  of  abilities  to  judge,  but  with  good- 
nature enough,  like  a  prudent  teacher 
with  a  young  learner,  to  praise,  perhaps, 
a  little  more  than  is  exactly  just,  lest  the 
thin-skinned  animal  fall  into  that  most 
deplorable  of  all  poetic  diseases — heart- 
breaking despondency  of  himself.  Dare 
1,  Sir,  already  immensely  indebted  to  your 
goodness,  ask  the  additional  obligation  of 
your  being  that  friend  to  me?  I  enclose 
you  an  essay  of  mine  in  a  walk  of  poesy 
to  me  entirely  new  ;  I  mean  the  epistle 
addressed  to  R.  G.  Esq.  or  Robert  Gra- 
ham, of  Fintry,  Esq.  a  gentleman  of  un- 
common worth,  to  whom  I  lie  under  very 
great  obligations.  The  story  of  the  po- 
em, like  most  of  my  poems,  is  connected 
with  my  own  story ;  and  to  give  you  the 
one  I  must  give  you  something  of  the 
other.     I  cannot  boast  of — 


I  believe  I  shall,  in  whole,  1007.  copy- 
right included,  clear  about  400/.  some 
little  odds ;  and  even  part  of  this  de- 
pends upon  what  the  gentleman  lias  yet 
to  settle  with  me.  I  give  you  this  in- 
formation, because  you  did  me  the  ho- 
nour to  interest  yourself  much  in  my  wel- 
fare. 


To  give  the  rest  of  my  story  in  brief,  T 
have  married  "  my  Jean,"  and  taken  a 
farm :  with  the  first  step,  I  have  every 
day  more  and  more  reason  to  be  satisfied ; 
with  the  last,  it  is  rather  the  reverse.  I 
have  a  younger  brother  who  supports  my 
aged  mother ;  another  still  younger  bro- 
ther, and  three  sisters,  in  a  farm.  On  my 
last  return  from  Edinburgh,  it  cost  me 
about  180J.  to  save  them  from  ruin.  Not 
that  I  have  lost  so  much — I  only  interpo- 
sed between  my  brother  and  his  impend- 
ing fate  by  the  loan  of  so  much.  I  give 
myself  no  airs  on  this,  for  it  was  mere 
selfishness  on  my  part :  I  was  conscious 
that  the  wrong  scale  of  the  balance  was 
pretty  heavily  charged  ;  and  I  thought 
that  throwing  a  little  filial  piety,  and  fra- 
ternal affection,  into  the  scale  in  my  fa- 
vour, might  help  to  smooth  matters  at  the 
grand  reckoning.   There  is  still  one  thing 


134 


LETTERS. 


would  make  my  circumstances  quite  easy : 
I  have  an  excise-officer's  commission,  and 
I  live  in  the  midst  of  a  country  division. 
My  request  to  Mr.  Graham,  who  is  one 
of  the  commissioners  of  excise,  was,  if  in 
his  power,  to  procure  me  that  division. 
It"  I  were  very  sanguine,  I  might  hope 
that  some  of  my  great  patrons  might  pro- 
cure me  a  treasury  warrant  for  supervi- 
sor, surveyor-general,  &c. 


Thus  secure  of  a  livelihood,  "  to  thee, 
sweet  poetry,  delightful  maid !"  I  would 
consecrate  my  future  days. 


No.  XLV. 

TO  PROFESSOR  D.  STEWART. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  20th  Jan.  1789. 


The  enclosed  sealed  packet  I  sent  to 
Edinburgh  a  few  days  after  I  had  the 
happiness  of  meeting  you  in  Ayrshire,  but 
you  were  gone  for  the  Continent.  I  have 
added  a  few  more  of  my  productions,  those 
for  which  I  am  indebted  to  the  Nithsdale 
Muses.  The  piece  inscribed  to  R.  G.  Esq. 
is  a  copy  of  verses  I  sent  Mr.  Graham,  of 
Fintry,  accompanying  a  request  for  his 
assistance  in  a  matter,  to  me,  of  very  great 
moment.  To  that  gentleman  I  am  already 
doubly  indebted,  for  deeds  of  kindness  of 
serious  import  to  my  dearest  interests, 
done  in  a  manner  grateful  to  the  delicate 
feelings  of  sensibility.  This  poem  is  a 
species  of  composition  new  to  me;  but  I 
do  not  intend  it  shall  be  my  last  essay  of 
the  kind,  as  you  will  see  by  the  "  Poet's 
Progress."  Those  fragments,  if  my  de- 
sign succeeds,  are  but  a  small  part  of  the 
intended  whole.  I  propose  it  shall  be  the 
work  of  my  utmost  exertions  ripened  by 
years :  of  course  I  do  not  wish  it  much 
known.  The  fragment,  beginning  "  A 
little,  upright,  pert,  tart,"  &c.  I  have  not 
shown  to  man  living,  till  now  I  send  it 
you-  It. forms  the  postulnfa,  the  axioms, 
the  definition  of  a  character,  which,  if  it 
appear  at  all,  shall  bo  placed  in  a  variety 
of  lights.  This  particular  part  I  send  you 
merely  as  a  sample  of  my  hand  at  portrait  - 
sketching;  but  lest  idle  conjecture  should 

{•retend  to  point  out  the  original,  please 
et  it  be  for  your  single,  solo  inspection. 


Need  I  make  any  apology  for  this  trou- 
ble to  a  gentleman  who  has  treated  me 
with  such  marked  benevolence  and  pecu- 
liar kindness ;  who  has  entered  into  my 
interests  with  so  much  zeal,  and  on  whose 
critical  decisions  I  can  so  fully  depend  ? 
A  poet  as  I  am  by  trade,  these  decisions 
to  me  are  of  the  last  consequence.  My 
late  transient  acquaintance  among  some 
of  the  mere  rank  and  file  of  greatness,  I 
resign  with  ease ;  but  to  the  distinguish- 
ed champions  of  genius  and  learning,  I 
shall  be  ever  ambitious  of  being  known. 
The  native  genius  and  accurate  discern- 
ment in  Mr.  Stewart's  critical  strictures ; 
the  justness  (iron  justice,  for  he  has  no 
bowels  of  compassion  for  a  poor  poetic 
sinner)  of  Dr.  Gregory's  remarks,  and  the 
delicacy  of  Professor  Dalzel's  taste,  I 
shall  ever  revere.  I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh 
some  time  next  month. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir, 
Your  highly  obliged, 

And  very  humble  servant, 
ROBERT  BURNS. 


No.  LXVI. 
TO  BISHOP  GEDDES. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  3d  Feb.  1789. 

VENERABLE  FATHER, 

As  I  am  conscious,  that  wherever  I 
am,  you  do  me  the  honour  to  interest 
yourself  in  my  welfare,  it  gives  me  plea- 
sure to  inform  you  that  I  am  here  at  last, 
stationary  in  the  serious  business  of  life, 
and  have  now  not  only  the  retired  leisure, 
but  the  hearty  inclination  to  attend  to 
those  great  and  important  questions — 
what  I  am  ?  where  I  am  ?  and  for  what  I 
am  destined  ? 

In  that  first  concern,  the  conduct  of  the 
man,  there  was  ever  but  one  side  on  which 
I  was  habitually  blameable,  and  there  I 
have  secured  myself  in  the  way  pointed 
out  by  Nature  .and  Nature's  God.  I  was 
sensible  that,  to  so  helpless  a  creature  as 
a  poor  poet,  a  wife  and  family  were  en- 
cumbrances, which  a  species  of  prudence 
would  bid  him  shun;  but  when  the  alter- 
native was,  being  at  eternal  warfare  with 
myself,  on  account  of  habitual  follies  to 
give  them  no  wore  name,  which  no  gene- 
ral example,  no  licentious  wit,  no  sophis- 
tical infidelity,  would  to  me,  ever  justify 


LETTERS. 


135 


I  must  have  been  a  fool  to  have  hesita- 
ted,  and  a  madman  to  have  made  another 
choice. 


In  the  affair  of  a  livelihood,  I  think  my 
self  tolerably  secure  :  I  have  good  hopes 
of  my  farm;  but  should  they  fail,  I  have 
an  excise  commission,  which  on  my  sim- 
ple petition,  will  at  any  time  procure  me 
bread.  There  is  a  certain  stigma  affixed 
to  the  character  of  an  excise  officer,  but 
I  do  not  intend  to  borrow  honour  from  any 
profession  ;  and  though  the  salary  be  com- 
paratively small,  it  is  great  to  any  thing 
that  the  first  twenty-five  years  of  my  life 
taught  me  to  expect. 


Thus,  with  a  rational  aim  and  method 
in  life,  you  may  easily  guess,  my  reverend 
and  much-honoured  friend,  that  my  cha- 
racteristical  trade  is  not  forgotten.  I  am, 
if  possible,  more  than  ever  an  enthusiast 
to  the  Muses.  I  am  determined  to  study 
man,  and  nature,  and  in  that  view  inces- 
santly ;  and  to  try  if  the  ripening  and  cor- 
rections of  years  can  enable  me  to  pro- 
duce something  worth  preserving. 

You  will  see  in  your  book,  which  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  detaining  so  long,  that  I 
have  been  tuning  my  lyre  on  the  banks  of 
Nith.  Some  large  poetic  plans  that  are 
floating  in  my  imagination,  or  partly  put 
in  execution,  I  shall  impart  to  you  when 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  with  you: 
which,  if  you  are  then  in  Edinburgh,  I  shall 
have  about  the  beginning  of  March. 

That  acquaintance,  worthy  Sir,  with 
which  you  were  pleased  to  honour  me, 
you  must  still  allow  me  to  challenge ;  for 
with  whatever  unconcern  I  give  up  my 
transient  connexion  with  the  merely  great, 
T  cannot  lose  the  patronizing  notice  of  the 
learned  and  good,  without  the  bitterest 
regret. 


No.  LXVII. 
FROM  THE  REV.  P.  CARFRAE. 
2d  Jan.  1789. 

SIR, 

If  you  have  lately  seen  Mrs.  Dunlop, 
of  Dunlop,  you  have  certainly  hoard  of 


the  author  of  the  verses  which  accompa- 
ny this  letter.  He  was  a  man  highly  re- 
spectable for  every  accomplishment  and 
virtue  which  adorns  the  character  of  a 
man  or  a  christian.  To  a  great  degree 
of  literature,  of  taste,  and  poetic  genius, 
was  added  an  invincible  modesty  of  tem- 
per, which  prevented  in  a  great  degree, 
his  figuring  in  life,  and  confined  the  per- 
fect knowledge  of  his  character  and  ta- 
lents to  the  small  circle  of  his  chosen 
friends.  He  was  untimely  taken  from  us, 
a  few  weeks  ago,  by  an  inflammatory  fe- 
ver, in  the  prime  of  life — beloved  by  all 
who  enjoyed  his  acquaintance,  and  lament- 
ed by  all  who  have  any  regard  for  virtue 
and  genius.  There  is  a  wo  pronounced 
in  Scripture  against  the  person  whom  all 
men  speak  well  of;  if  ever  that  wo  fell 
upon  the  head  of  mortal  man,  it  fell  upon 
him.  He  has  left  behind  him  a  consider- 
able number  of  compositions,  chiefly  po- 
etical, sufficient,  I  imagine,  to  make  a 
large  octavo  volume.  In  particular,  two 
complete  and  regular  tragedies,  a  farce 
of  three  acts,  and  some  smaller  poems  on 
different  subjects.  It  falls  to  my  share, 
who  have  lived  in  the  most  intimate  and 
uninterrupted  friendship  with  him  from 
my  youth  upwards,  to  transmit  to  you  the 
verses  he  wrote  on  the  publication  of  your 
incomparable  poems.  It  is  probable  they 
were  his  last,  as  they  were  found  in  his 
scrutoire,  folded  up  with  the  form  of  a  let- 
ter addressed  to  you,  and,  I  imagine  were 
only  prevented  from  being  sent  by  him- 
self, by  that  melancholy  dispensation 
which  we  still  bemoan.  The  verses  them- 
selves I  will  not  pretend  to  criticise  when 
writing  to  a  gentleman  whom  I  consider 
as  entirely  qualified  to  judge  of  their  me- 
rit. They  are  the  only  verses  he  seenu 
to  have  attempted  in  the  Scottish  style ; 
and  I  hesitate  not  to  say,  in  general,  that 
they  will  bring  no  dishonour  on  the  Scoth 
tish  muse ; — and  allow  me  to  add,  that, 
if  it  is  your  opinion  they  are  not  unwor- 
thy of  the  author,  and  will  be  no  discre- 
dit to  you,  it  is  the  inclination  of  Mr. 
Mylne's  friends  that  they  should  be  im- 
mediately published  in  some  periodical 
work,  to  give  the  world  a  specimen  of 
what  may  be  expected  from  his  perform- 
ances in  the  poetic  line,  which,  perhaps, 
will  be  afterwards  published  for  the  ad- 
vantage of  his  family. 


I  must  beg  the  favour  of  a  letter  from 
you,  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  this ; 


13fi 


LETTERS. 


and  to  be  allowed  to  subscribe  myself, 
with  great  regard, 

Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 
P.  CARFRAE. 


No.  LXVIII 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  4th  March,  1789. 
Here  am  I,  my  honoured  friend,  re- 
turned safe  from  the  capital.  To  a  man 
who  has  a  home,  however  humble  or  re- 
mote— if  that  home  is  like  mine,  the  scene 
of  domestic  comfort — the  bustle  of  Edin- 
burgh will  soon  be  a  business  of  sicken- 
ing disgust. 

"  Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  you." 

When  I  must  skulk  into  a  corner,  lest 
the  rattling  equipage  of  some  gaping 
blockhead  should  mangle  me  in  the  mire, 
I  am  tempted  to  exclaim — "  What  merits 
has  he  had,  or  what  demerit  have  I  had, 
in  some  state  of  pre-existence,  that  he  is 
ushered  into  this  state  of  being  with  the 
sceptre  of  rule,  and  the  key  of  riches  in 
his  puny  fist,  and  I  am  kicked  into  the 
world,  the  sport  of  folly,  or  the  victim  of 
pride?"  I  have  read  somewhere  of  a  mo- 
narch (in  Spain  I  think  it  was,)  who  was 
so  out  of  humour  with  the  Ptolemean  sys- 
tem of  astronomy,  that  he  said,  had  he 
been  of  the  Creator's  council,  he  could 
have  saved  him  a  great  deal  of  labour  and 
absurdity.  I  will  not  defend  this  blas- 
phemous speech;  but  often,  as  I  have 
glided  with  humble  stealth  through  the 
pomp  of  Prince's  street,  it  has  suggested 
itself  to  me,  as  an  improvement  on  the 
present  human  figure,  that  a  man,  in  pro- 
portion to  his  own  conceit  of  his  conse- 
quence in  the  world,  could  have  pushed 
out  the  longitude  of  his  common  size,  as 
a  snail  pushes  out  his  horns,  or  as  we 
draw  out  a  perspective.  This  trifling  al- 
teration, not  to  mention  the  prodigious  . 
saving  it  would  be  in  the  tear  and  wear 
of  the  neck  and  limb-sinews  of  many  of 
his  majesty's  liege  subjects,  in  the  way  of 
tossingtheheadandtiptoe-strutting,would 
evidently  turn  out  a  vast  advantage,  in 
anabling  us  at  once  to  adjust  the  ceremo- 
nials in  making  a  bow,  or  making  way  to 
a  great  man,  and  that  too  within  a  socond 
oft  he  precise  spherical  angle  of  reverence, 
or  an  inch  of  the  particular  point  of  re- 
spectful distance,   which  the  important 


creature  itself  requires  ;  as  a  measuring- 
glance  at  its  towering  altitude  would  de- 
termine the  affair  like  instinct. 

Your  are  right,  Madam,  in  your  idea 
of  poor  Mylne's  poem,  which  he  has  ad- 
dressed to  me.  The  piece  has  a  good 
deal  of  merit,  but  it  has  one  great  fault 
— it  is,  by  far,  too  long.  Besides,  my 
success  has  encouraged  such  a  shoal  of 
ill-spawned  monsters  to  crawl  into  public 
notice,  under  the  title  of  Scottish  Poets, 
that  the  very  term  Scottish  Poetry  bor- 
ders on  the  burlesque.  When  I  write  to 
Mr.  Carfrae,  I  shall  advise  him  rather  to 
try  one  of  his  deceased  friend's  English 
pieces.  I  am  prodigiously  hurried  with 
my  own  matters,  else  I  would  have  re- 
quested a  perusal  of  all  Mylne's  poetic 
performances  ;  and  would  have  offered 
his  friends  my  assistance  in  either  select- 
ing or  correcting  what  would  be  proper 
for  the  press.  What  it  is  that  occupies 
me  so  much,  and  perhaps  a  little  oppress- 
es my  present  spirits,  shall  fill  up  a  pa- 
ragraph in  some  future  letter.  In  the 
mean  time,  allow  me  to  close  this  epistle 
with  a  few  lines  done  by  a  friend  of  mine 
*  *  *  *.  I  give  you  them,  that,  as  you 
have  seen  the  original,  you  may  guess 
whether  one  or  two  alterations  I  have 
ventured  to  make  in  them,  be  any  real 
improvement. 

Like  the  fair  plant  that  from  our  touch  withdraws, 
Shrink,  mildly  fearful,  even  from  applause. 
Be  all  a  mother's  fondest  hope  can  dream, 


And  all  you  are,  my  charming 


",  seem, 


Straight  as  the  fox-glove,  ere  her  bells  disclose, 
Mild  as  the  maiden-blushing  hawthorn  blows, 
Fair  as  the  fairest  of  each  lovely  kind, 
Your  form  shall  be  the  image  of  your  mind  ; 
Your  manners  shall  so  true  your  soul  express, 
That  all  shall  long  to  know  the  worth  they  guess; 
Congenial  hearts  shall  greet  with  kindred  love, 
And  even  sick'ning  envy  must  approve.* 


No.  LXIX. 
TO  THE  REV.  P.  CARFRAE. 

J  789. 

REVEREND  SIR, 

I  do  not  recollect  that  I  hove  ever 
felt  a  severer  pang  of  shame,  than  on 
looking  at  the  date  of  your  obliging  letter 
which  accompanied  Mr.  Mylne's  poem. 

*  These  beautiful  lines,  we  have  reason  to  believe, 
are  the  production  of  the  lady  to  whom  this  letter  is  ad- 
dressed.    V.. 


LETTERS. 


137 


I  am  much  to  blame :  the  honour  Mr. 
Mylne  has  done  me,  greatly  enhanced  in 
its  value  by  the  endearing  though  me- 
lancholy circumstance  of  its  being  the 
last  production  of  his  muse,  deserved  a 
better  return. 

I  have,  as  you  hint,  thought  of  sending 
a  copy  of  the  poem  to  some  periodical 
publication  ;  but,  on  second  thoughts,  I 
am  afraid  that,  in  the  present  ease,  it 
would  be  an  improper  step.  My  success, 
perhaps  as  much  accidental  as  merited,  has 
brought  an  inundation  of  nonsense  under 
the  name  of  Scottish  poetry.  Subscrip- 
tion bills  for  Scottish  poems  have  so 
dunned,  and  daily  do  dun,  the  public,  that 
the  very  name  is  in  clanger  of  contempt. 
For  these  reasons,  if  publishing  any  of 
Mr.  M  vine's  poems  in  a  magazine,  &c. 
be  at  all  prudent,  in  my  opinion,  it  cer- 
tainly should  not  be  a  Scottish  poem. 
The  profits  of  the  labours  of  a  man  of 
genius  are,  I  hope,  as  honourable  as  any 
profits  whatever ;  and  Mr.  Mylne's  rela- 
tions are  most  justly  entitled  to  that  ho- 
nest harvest  which  fate  has  denied  him- 
self to  reap.  But  let  the  friends  of  Mr. 
Mylne's  fame  (among  whom  I  crave  the 
honour  of  ranking  myself)  always  keep 
in  eye  his  respectability  as  a  man  and 
as  a  poet,  and  take  no  measure  that,  be- 
fore the  world  knows  any  thing  about 
him,  would  risk  his  name  and  charac- 
ter being  classed  with  the  fools  of  the 
times. 

I  have,  Sir,  some  experience  of  pub- 
lishing, and  the  way  in  which  I  would 
proceed  with  Mr.  Mylne's  poems  is  this: 
I  would  publish  in  two  or  three  English 
and  Scottish  public  papers,  any  one  of  his 
English  poems  which  should,  by  private 
judges,  be  thought  the  most  excellent, 
and  mention  it,  at  the  same  time,  as  one 
of  the  productions  of  a  Lothian  farmer, 
of  respectable  character,  lately  deceased, 
whose  poems  his  friends  had  it  in  idea  to 
publish  soon,  by  subscription,  for  the  sake 
of  his  numerous  family : — not  in  pity  to 
that  family,  but  in  justice  to  what  his 
friends  think  the  poetic  merits  of  the  de- 
ceased ;  and  to  secure,  in  the  most  effec- 
tual manner,  to  those  tender  connexions, 
whose  right  it  is,  the  pecuniary  reward 
of  those  merits. 


No.  LX\. 
TO  DR.  MOORE 

Ellisland,  23d  March,  1789. 


SIR, 


The  gentleman  who  will  deliver  you 
this  is  a  Mr.  Nielson,  a  worthy  clergy- 
man in  my  neighbourhood,  and  a  very 
particular  acquaintance  of  mine.  As  I 
have  troubled  him  with  this  packet,  I 
must  turn  him  over  to  your  goodness,  to 
recompense  him  for  it  in  a  way  in  w  hich 
lie  much  needs  your  assistance,  and  where 
you  can  effectually  serve  him  : — Mr.  Niel- 
son is  on  his  way  for  France,  to  wait  on 
his  Grace  of  Queonsberry,  on  some  little 
business  of  a  good  deal  of  importance  to 
him,  and  he  wishes  for  your  instructions 
respecting  the  most  eligible  mode  of  tra- 
velling, &,c.  for  him,  when  he  has  crossed 
the  channel.  I  should  not  have  dared  to 
take  this  liberty  with  you,  but  that  I  am 
told,  by  those  who  have  the  honour  of 
your  personal  acquaintance,  that  to  be  a 
poor  honest  Scotchman,  is  a  letter  of  re- 
commendation to  you,  and  that  to  have  it 
in  your  power  to  serve  such  a  character 
gives  you  much  pleasure. 


The  enclosed  ode  is  a  compliment  to  the 
memory  of  the  late  Mrs.  *****,  of  ****** 
**.  You,  probably,  knew  her  personally, 
an  honour  of  which  I  cannot  boast;  but 
I  spent  my  early  years  in  her  neighbour- 
hood, and  among  her  servants  and  tenants, 
I  know  that  she  was  detested  with  the 
most  heartfelt  cordiality.  However,  in 
the  particular  part  of  her  conduct  which 
roused  my  poetic  wrath,  she  was  much 
less  blameable.  In  January  last,  on  my 
road  to  Ayrshire,  I  had  put  up  at  Bailie 
Whigham's  in  Sanquhar,  the  only  toler- 
able inn  in  the  place.  The  frost  was 
keen,  and  the  grim  evening  and  howling 
wind  were  ushering  in  a  night  of  snow  and 
drift.  My  horse  and  I  were  both  much  fa- 
tigued with  the  labours  of  the  day ;  and 
just  as  my  friend  the  Bailie  and  I  were 
bidding  defiance  to  the  storm,  over  a 
smoking  bowl,  in  wheels  the  funeral  pa- 
geantry of  the  late  great  Mrs.  ******,  and 
poor  I  am  forced  to  brave  all  the  horrors 
of  the  tempestuous  night,  and  jade  my 
horse,  my  young  favourite  horse,  whom  I 
had  just  christened  Pegasus,  twelve  miles 
farther  on,  through  the  wildest  moors  and 
hills  of  Ayrshire,  to  New  Cumnock,  the 


138 


LETTERS. 


next  inn.  The  powers  of  poesy  and  prose 
sink  under  me,  when  I  would  describe 
what  I  felt.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  when 
a  good  fire  at  New  Cumnock,  had  so  far 
recovered  my  frozen  sinews,  I  sat  down 
and  wrote  the  enclosed  ode.* 

I  was  at  Edinburgh  lately,  and  settled 
finally  with  Mr.  Creech  ;  and  I  must  own, 
that,  at  last,  he  has  been  amicable  and 
fair  with  me. 


No.  LXXI. 
TO  MR.  HILL. 

Ellisland,  2d  April,  1789. 

I  wilt,  make  no  excuses,  my  dear 
Bibliopolus  (God  forgive  me  for  murder- 
ing language,)  that  I  have  sat  down  to 
write  you  on  this  vile  paper. 


Ft  is  economy,  Sir ;  it  is  that  cardinal  vir- 
tue, prudence ;  so  I  beg  you  will  sit  down, 
and  either  compose  or  borrow  a  panegy- 
ric.    If  you  are  going  to  borrow,  apply  to 


to  compose,  or  rather  to  compound  some- 
thing very  clever  on  my  remarkable  fru- 
gality ;  that  I  write  to  one  of  my  most 
esteemed  friends  on  this  wretched  paper, 
which  was  originally  intended  for  the  ve- 
nal fist  of  some  drunken  exciseman,  to 
take  dirty  notes  in  a  miserable  vault  of 
an  ale-cellar. 

O  Frugality !  thou  mother  of  ten  thou- 
sand blessings — thou  cook  of  fat  beef  and 
dainty  greens — thou  manufacturer  of 
warm  Shetland  hose,  and  comfortable 
surtouts  ! — thou  old  housewife,  darning 
thy  decayed  stockings  with  thy  ancient 
spectacles  on  thy  aged  nose  ! — lead  me, 
hand  me,  in  thy  clutching,  palsied  fist,  up 
those  heights,  and  through  those  thickets, 
hitherto  inaccessible,  and  impervious  to 
my  anxious,  weary  feet; — not  those  Par- 
nassian crags,  bleak  and  barren,  where 

the  hungry  worshippers  of  fame  are  breath- 
less, clambering,  hanging  between  heaven 
and  hell ;  but  those  glittering  cliffs  of  Po- 
tosi,  where  the  all-sufficient,  all-powerful 
deity,  Wealth,  holds  his  immediate  court 

*  The  Ode  enclosed  is  that  printed  in  Poem.-!,  p.  G3.  E. 


of  joys  and  pleasures ;  where  the  sunny 
exposure  of  plenty,  and  the  hot  walls  of 
profusion,  produce  those  blissful  fruits  of 
luxury,  exotics  in  this  world,  and  natives 
of  Paradise  ! — Thou  withered  sybil,  my 
sage  conductress,  usher  me  into  the  re- 
fulgent, adored  presence! — The  power, 
splendid  and  potent  as  he  now  is,  was  once 
the  puling  nursling  of  thy  faithful  care 
and  tender  arms  !  Call  me  thy  son,  thy 
cousin,  thy  kinsman  or  favourite,  and  ab- 
jure the  god,  by  the  scenes  of  his  infant 
years,  no  longer  to  repulse  me  as  a  stran- 
ger, or  an  alien,  but  to  favour  me  with 
his  peculiar  countenance  and  protection  ! 
He  daily  bestows  his  greatest  kindnesses 
on  the  undeserving  and  the  worthless — 
assure  him  that  I  bring  ample  documents 
of  meritorious  demerits!  Pledge  yourself 
for  me,  that  for  the  glorious  cause  of  Lu- 
cre I  will  do  any  thing — be  any  thing — 
but  the  horse-leech  of  private  oppression, 
or  the  vulture  of  public  robbery ! 


But  to  descend  from  heroics, 


I  want  a  Shakspeare  ;  I  want  likewise  an 
English  Dictionary — Johnson's  I  suppose 
is  best.  In  these  and  all  my  prose  com- 
missions, the  cheapest  is  always  the  best 
for  me.  There  is  a  small  debt  of  honour 
that  I  owe  Mr.  Robert  Cleghorn,  in 
Saughton  Mills,  my  worthy  friend,  and 
your  well-wisher.  Please  give  him,  and 
urge  him  to  take  it,  the  first  time  you  see 
him,  ten  shillings  worth  of  any  thing  you 
have  to  sell,  and  place  it  to  my  account. 

The  library  scheme  that  I  mentioned 
to  you  is  already  begun,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Captain  Riddel.  There  is  ano- 
ther in  emulation  of  it  going  on  at  Close- 
burn,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Monteith 
of  Closcburn,  which  will  he  on  a  greater 
scale  than  ours.  Capt.  R.  gave  his  in- 
fant society  a  great  many  of  his  old  books, 
else  I  had  written  you  on  that  subject; 
but  one  of  these  days,  I  shall  trouble  you 
with  a  communication  for  "  The  Monk- 
land  Friendly  Society;" — a  copy  of  The 
Spectator,  Mirror,  and  Lounger  ;  J\Ian  of 
Feeling,  .Man  of  the  World,  Guthrie's 
Geographical  Grammar,  with  some  reli- 
gious pieces,  will  likewise  be  our  first 
order. 

When  I  grow  richer  I  will  write  to  you 


LETTERS. 


139 


on  (jilt  post,  to  make  amends  for  this  sheet. 
At  presenl  every  guinea  has  a  five  guinea 
errand  with, 

My  dear  Sir, 
Your  faithful,  poor,  but  honest  friend. 
R.  B. 


No.  LXXII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  4th  April,  1789. 

I  no  sooner  hit  on  any  poetic  plan  or 
ancy,  but  I  wish  to  send  it  to  you  :  and 
if  knowing  and  reading  these  give  half 
the  pleasure  to  you,  that  communicating 
them  to  you  gives  to  me,  I  am  satisfied. 


I  have  a  poetic  whim  in  my  head,  which 
I  at  present  dedicate,  or  rather  inscribe, 
to  the  Right  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox  :  but  how 
long  that  fancy  may  hold,  I  cannot  say. 
A  tew  of  the  first  lines  I  have  just  rough- 
sketched,  as  follows.* 


On  the  20th  current  I  hope  to  have  the 
honour  of  assuring  you,  in  person,  how 
sincerely  I  am — 


No.  LXXIII. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  4th  May,  1789. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

Your  duty-free  favour  of  the  26th 
April  I  received  two  days  ago  ;  I  will 
not  say  I  perused  it  with  pleasure  ;  that 
is  the  cold  compliment  of  ceremony  ;  I 
perused  it,  Sir,  with  delicious  satisfaction 
— in  short,  it  is  such  a  letter,  that  not  you 
nor  your  friend,  but  the  legislature,  by 
express  proviso  in  their  postage-laws, 
should  frank.  A  letter  informed  with  the 
soul  of  friendship  is  such  an  honour  to 
human  nature,  that  they  should  order  it 
free  ingress  and  egress  to  and  from  their 

*  Here  was  copied  tlio  Fragment  inscribed  to  C  J. 
Fox     See  Poems,  p.  81. 

X  2 


bags  and  mails,  as  an  encouragement  and 
mark  of  distinction  to  supereminent  virtue. 

I  have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  a  little 
poem  which  1  think  will  he  something  to 
your  taste.  One  morning  lately  as  I  w  as 
out  pretty  early  in  tin;  fields  sowing  some 
grass  seeds,  I  heard  the  burst  of  a  shot 
from  a  neighbouring  plantation,  and  pre- 
sently a  poor  little  wounded  hare  came 
crippling  by  me.  You  will  guess  my  in- 
dignation at  the  inhuman  fellow  who  could 
shoot  a  hare  at  this  season,  when  they  all 
of  them  have  young  ones.  Indeed  there 
is  something  in  that  business  of  destroy- 
ing, for  our  sport,  individuals  in  the  ani- 
mal creation  that  do  not  injure  us  mate- 
rially, which  1  could  never  reconcile  to 
my  ideas  of  virtue. 


On  seeing  a  Fellow  wound  a  Hare  with  a 
Shot,  April,  1789. 

Inhuman  man !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art, 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming  eye  : 
May  never  pity  sooth  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart  I 

Go  live,  poor  wanderei  of  the  wood  and  field 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  : 
No  more  the  thickening  brakes  or  verdant  plains, 

To  thee  a  home,  or  food,  or  pasiime  yield. 

Seek,  mangled  innocent,  some  wonted  form, 
That  wonted  form,  alas  !  thy  dying  bed, 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head, 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  blood-stained  bosom  warm. 

Perhaps  a  mother's  anguish  adds  its  wo; 

The  playful  pair  crowd  fondly  by  thy  side  ; 

Ah  !  helpless  nurslings,  who  will  now  provide 
That  life  a  mother  only  can  bestow. 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 
The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruthless  wretch,  and  mourn  thy  hap- 
less fate. 

Let  me  know  how  you  like  my  poem. 
T  am  doubtful  whether  it  would  not  be  an 
improvement  to  keep  out  the  last  stanza 
but  one  altogether. 

C is  a  glorious  production  of  the 

Author  of  man.  You,  he,  and  the  noble 
Colonel  of  the  C F are  to  me 

"  Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  which  warm  my  breast." 

I  have  a  good  mind  to  make  verses  on  you 
all,  to  the  tune  of  "  Three  guid  fellows 
ayont  the  glen-" 


140 


LETTERS. 


NO.  LXXIV. 


The  poem  in  the  preceding  letter  had  also  been  sent  by 
our  Hard  to  Dr.  Gregory  for  his  criticism.  The  fol- 
lowing is  that  gentleman's  reply. 

FROM  DR.  GREGORY. 

Edinburgh,  2d  June,  1739. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  take  the  first  leisure  hour  I  could 
command,  to  thank  you  for  your  letter, 
and  the  copy  of  verses  enclosed  in  it.  As 
there  is  real  poetic  merit,  I  mean  botli 
fancy  and  tenderness,  and  some  happy  ex- 
pressions in  them,  I  think  they  well  de- 
serve that  you  should  revise  them  care- 
fully and  polish  them  to  the  utmost.  This 
I  am  sure  you  can  do  if  you  please,  for 
you  have  great  command  both  of  expres- 
sion and  of  rhymes:  and  you  may  judge 
from  the  two  last  pieces  of  Mrs.  Hunter's 
poetry,  that  I  gave  you,  how  much  cor- 
rectness and  high  polish  enhance  the  va- 
lue of  such  compositions.  As  you  desire 
it,  I  shall,  with  great  freedom,  give  you 
my  most  rigorous  criticisms  on  your  verses. 
I  wish  you  would  give  me  another  edition 
of  them,  much  amended,  and  I  will  send 
it  to  Mrs.  Hunter,  who  I  am  sure  will  have 
much  pleasure  in  reading  it.  Pray  give 
me  likewise  for  myself,  and  her  too,  a  copy 
(as  much  amended  as  you  please)  of  the 
Water  Fowl  on  Loch  Turit. 

The  Wounded  Hare  is  a  pretty  good 
subject;  but  the  measure  or  stanza  you 
have  chosen  for  it,  is  not  a  good  one ;  it 
does  not  flow  well;  and  the  rhyme  of  the 
fourth  line  is  almost  lost  by  its  distance 
from  the  first,  and  the  two  interposed, 
close  rhymes.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  put 
it  into  a  different  stanza  yet. 

Stanza  1.  The  execrations  in  the  first 
two  lines  are  too  strong  or  coarse ;  but 
they  may  pass.  "  Murder-aiming"  is  a 
bad  compound  epithet,  and  not  very  in- 
telligible. "  Blood-stained,"  in  stanza  iii. 
line  4.  has  the  same  fault :  Bleeding  bo- 
som is  infinitely  better.  You  have  ac- 
customed yourself  to  such  epithets  and 
have  no  notion  how  stiff  and  quaint  they 
appear  to  others,  and  how  incongruous 
with  poetic  fancy  and  tender  sentiments. 
Suppose  Pope  had  written,  "  Why  that 
blood-stained  bosom  gored,"  how  would 
you  have  liked  it  ?  Form  is  neither  a  po- 
etic, nor  a  dignified,  nor  a  plain  common 
word  :  it  is  a  mere  sportsman's  word  ;  un- 
suitable to  pathetic  or  serious  poetry. 


"  Mangled"  is  a  coarse  word.  "  Inno- 
cent," in  this  sense,  is  a  nursery  word, 
but  both  may  pass. 

Stanza  4.  "  Who  will  now  provide  that 
life  a  mother  only  can  bestow  ?"  will  not 
do  at  all :  it  is  not  grammar — it  is  not  in- 
telligible. Do  you  mean,  "  provide  for 
that  life  which  the  mother  had  bestowed 
and  used  to  provide  for?" 

There  was  a  ridiculous  slip  of  the  pen, 
"  Feeling"  (I  suppose)  for  "  Fellow,"  in 
the  title  of  your  copy  of  verses;  but  even 
fellow  would  be  wrong;  it  is  but  a  collo- 
quial and  vulgar  word,  unsuitable  to  your 
sentiments.  "  Shot"  is  improper  too. — On 
seeing  a  person  (or  a  sportsman)  wound  a 
hare;  it  is  needless  to  add  with  what 
weapon;  but  if  you  think  otherwise,  you 
should  say,  with  a  fowling  piece. 

Let  me  see  you  when  you  come  to  town, 
and  I  will  show  you  some  more  of  Mrs 
Hunter's  poems.* 


No.  LXXV. 
TO  MR   M'AULEY,  OF  DUMBARTON. 
4th  June,  1789. 

DEAR  SIR, 

Though  I  am  not  without  my  fears 
respecting  my  fate,  at  that  grand,  univer- 
sal inquest  of  right  and  wrong,  commonly 
called  The  Last  Day,  yet  I  trust  there  is 
one  sin,  which  that  arch  vagabond,  Satan, 
who  I  understand  is  to  be  king's  evidence, 
cannot  throw  in  my  teeth,  I  mean  ingra- 
titude. There  is  a  certain  pretty  large 
quantum  of  kindness,  for  which  I  remain, 
and  from  inability,  I  fear  must  still  remain, 
your  debtor;  but,  though  unable  to  repay 
the  debt,  I  assure  you,  Sir,  I  shall  ever 
warmly  remember  the  obligation.  It  gives 
me  the  sincerest  pleasure  to  hear,  by  my 
old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Kennedy,  that  you 

*  It  must  he  admitted,  that  this  criticism  is  not  more 
distinguished  by  its  good  sens»,  than  by  its  freedom 
from  ceremony.  It  is  impossible  not  to  smile  at  the 
manner  in  which  the  poet  may  be  supposed  to  have  re- 
ceived it.  In  fact,  it  appears,  as  the  sailors  say,  to  have) 
thrown  him  quite  ahack.    In  a  letter  which  he  wrote 

soon  after,  he  says,  "  Dr.  G is  a  good  man,  but  he 

crucifies  me." — And  again,  "  I  believe  in  the  iron  jus- 
tice of  Dr.  G ;"  but,  like  the  devils,  "  I  believe  and 

tremble."  However,  he  profited  by  these  criticisms,  as 
the  reader  will  find  by  comparing  the  first  edition  of 
thia  piece  with  that  published  in  p  CO  of  the  Poems. 


LETTERS. 


141 


are,  in  immortal  Allan's  language, "  Hale 
and  weel,  and  living ;"  and  that  yonr 
charming1  family  are  well,  and  promising 
to  In'  an  amiable  and  respect  aide  addition 
to  the  company  of  performers,  whom  the 
great  Manager  of  the  drama  of  Man  is 
bringing  into  action  for  the  succeeding 
age. 

With  respect  to  my  welfare,  a  subject 
in  which  you  once  warmly  and  effectively 
interested  yourself,  I  am  here  in  my  old 
way,  holding  my  plough,  marking  the 
growth  of  my  corn,  or  the  health  of  my 
dairy  ;  and  at  times  sauntering  by  the  de- 
lightful windings  of  the  Nith,  on  the  mar- 
gin of  which  I  have  built  my  humble  do- 
micile, praying  for  seasonable  weather, 
or  holding  an  intrigue  with  the  muses,  the 
only  gipsies,  with  whom  I  have  now  any 
intercourse.  As  I  am  entered  into  the 
holy  state  of  matrimony,  I  trust  my  face 
is  turned  completely  Zion-ward;  and  as 
it  is  a  rule  with  all  honest  fellows  to  re- 
peat no  grievances,  I  hope  that  the  little 
poetic  licenses  of  former  days  will  of 
course  fall  under  the  oblivious  influence 
of  some  good-natured  statute  of  celestial 
proscription.  In  my  family  devotion, 
which,  like  a  good  presbyterian,  I  occa- 
sionally give  to  my  household  folks,  I  am 
extremely  fond  of  the  psalm,  "Let  not  the 
errors  of  my  youth,"  &c.  and  that  other, 
"  Lo,  children  are  God's  heritage,"  &c. ; 
in  which  last,  Mrs.  Burns,  who,  by  the 
by,  has  a  glorious  "  wood-note  wild"  at 
either  old  song  or  psalmody,  joins  me  with 
the  pathos  of  Handel's  Messiah. 


No.  LXXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  2lst  June,  1789. 

nF.AR  MADAM, 

Wit.l  you  take  the  effusions,  the 
miserable  effusions,  of  low  spirits,  just  as 
they  flow  from  their  bitter  spring ?  I  know 
not  of  any  particular  cause  for  this  worst 
of  all  my  foes  besetting  me,  but  for  some 
time  my  soul  has  been  beclouded  with  a 
thickening  atmosphere  of  evil  imagina- 
tions and  gloomy  presages. 


Monday  Evening. 

I  have  just  heard  *  *  *  *  give  a 
sermon.  He  is  a  man  famous  for  his  be- 
nevolence, and  I  revere  him ;  hut  from 
such  ideas  of  my  Creator,  good  Lord,  de- 
liver me  ?  Religion,  my  honoured  friend, 
is  surely  a  simple  business,  as  it  equally 
concerns  the  ignorant  and  the  learned, 
the  poor  and  the  rich.  That  there  is  an 
incomprehensibly  Great  Being,  to  whom 
I  owe  my  existence,  and  that  he  must  be 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  operations 
and  progress  of  the  internal  machinery, 
and  consequent  outward  deportment  of 
this  creature  which  he  has  made  :  these 
are,  I  think,  self-evident  propositions. 
That  there  is  a  real  and  eternal  distinc- 
tion between  virtue  and  vice,  and  conse- 
quently, that  I  am  an  accountable  crea- 
ture ;  that  from  the  seeming  nature  of  the 
human  mind,  as  well  as  from  the  evident 
imperfection,  nay,  positive  injustice,  in 
the  administration  of  affairs,  both  in  the 
natural  and  moral  worlds,  there  must  be 
a  retributive  scene  of  existence  beyond 
the  grave — must,  I  think,  be  allowed  by 
every  one  who  will  give  himself  a  mo- 
ment's reflection.  I  will  go  farther,  and 
affirm,  that  from  the  sublimity,  excellence, 
and  purity,  of  his  doctrine  and  precepts, 
unparalleled  by  all  the  aggregated  wis- 
dom and  learning  of  many  preceding  ages, 
though,  to  appearance,  he  himself  was  the 
obscurest,  and  most  illiterate  of  our  spe- 
cies;  therefore  Jesus   Christ  was  from 

God. 

*        *        *        * 

Whatever  mitigates  the  woes,  or  in- 
creases the  happiness  of  others,  this  is  my 
criterion  of  goodness ;  and  whatever  in- 
jures society  at  large,  or  any  individual 
in  it,  this  is  my  measure  of  iniquity. 

What  think  you,  Madam,  of  my  creed? 
I  trust  that  I  have  said  nothing  that  will 
lessen  me  in  the  eye  of  one  whose  good 
opinion  I  value  almost  next  to  the  appro- 
bation of  my  own  mind. 


No.  LXXVII. 
FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

Clifford  Street,  \0th  June,  1789. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  thank  you  for  the  different  com- 
munications you  have  made  me  of  your 


U2 


LETTERS. 


occasional  productions  in  manuscript,  all 
of  which  have  merit,  and  some  of  them 
meril  of  a  different  kind  from  what  ap- 
pears in  the  poems  you  have  published. 
STou  ought  carefully  to  preserve  all  your 
occasional  productions,  to  correct  and  im- 
prove them  at  your  leisure ;  and  when 
you  can  select  as  many  of  these  as  will 
make  a  volume,  publish  it  either  at  Edin- 
burgh or  London,  by  subscription :  on 
such  an  occasion,  it  may  be  in  my  power, 
as  it  is  very  much  in  my  inclination,  to  be 
of  service  to  you. 

If  I  were  to  offer  an  opinion,  it  would 
be,  that,  in  your  future  productions,  you 
should  abandon  the  Scottish  stanza  and 
dialect,  and  adopt  the  measure  and  lan- 
guage of  modern  English  poetry. 

The  stanza  which  you  use  in  imitation 
of  Christ  kirk  on  the  Green,  with  the  tire- 
some repetition  of  "  that  day,"  is  fatiguing 
to  English  ears,  and  I  should  think  not 
very  agreeable  to  Scottish. 

All  the  fine  satire  and  humour  of  your 
Holy  Fair  is  lost  on  the  English ;  yet, 
without  more  trouble  to  yourself,  you 
could  have  conveyed  the  whole  to  them. 
The  same  is  true  of  some  of  your  other 

poems.     In  your  Epistle  to  J.  S. , 

the  stanzas,  from  that  beginning  with  this 
line,  "  This  life,  so  far's  I  understand,' 
to  that  which  ends  with — "  Shoit  while 
it  grieves,"  are  easy,  flowing,  gayly  phi- 
losophical, and  of  Horatian  elegance — 
the  language  is  English,  with  a. few  Scot- 
tish words,  and  some  of  those  so  harmo- 
nious as  to  add  to  the  beauty  ;  for  what 
poet  would  not  prefer  gloaming  to  twi- 
light ? 

I  imagine,  that  by  carefully  keeping, 
and  occasionally  polishing  and  correcting 
those  verses,  which  the  Muse  dictates, 
you  will,  within  a  year  or  two,  have  ano- 
ther  volume  as  large  as  the  first,  ready 
for  the  press:  and  this  without  diverting 
you  from  every  proper  attention  to  the 
tstudy  and  practice  of  husbandry,  in  which 
I  understand  you  are  very  learned,  and 
which  I  fancy  you  will  choose  to  adhere 
to  as  a  wife,  while  poetry  amuses  you 
from  time  to  time  as  a  mistress.  The 
former,  like  a  prudent  wife,  must  not  show 
ill-humour,  although  you  retain  a  sneak- 
ing kindness  to  this  agreeable  gipsy,  and 
pay  her  occasional  visits,  which  in  no 
manner  alienates  your  heart  from  your 
lawful  spouse,  but  tends  on  the  contrary, 
to  promote  her  interest. 


I  desired  Mr.  Cadell  to  write  to  Mr. 
Creech  to  send  you  a  copy  of  Zcluco. 
This  performance  has  had  great  success 
here ;  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  your 
opinion  of  it,  because  1  value  your  opinion, 
and  because  I  know  you  are  above  say- 
ing what  you  do  not  think. 

I  beg  you  will  offer  my  best  wishes  to 
my  very  good  friend,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who 
I  understand  is  your  neighbour.  If  she 
is  as  happy  as  I  wish  her,  she  is  happy 
enough.  Make  my  compliments  also  to 
Mrs.  Burns :  and  believe  me  to  be,  with 
sincere  esteem, 

Dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.  LXXVIII. 
FROM  MISS  J.  LITTLE. 
Loudon  House,  \2th  July,  1789. 

6IR, 

Though  I  have  not  the  happiness  of 
being  personally  acquainted  with  you,  yet, 
amongst  the  number  of  those  who  have 
read  and  admired  your  publications,  may 
I  be  permitted  to  trouble  you  with  this. 
You  must  know,  Sir,  I  am  somewhat  in 
love  with  the  Muses,  though  I  cannot 
boast  of  any  favours  they  have  deigned  to 
confer  upon  me  as  yet ;  my  situation  in 
life  has  been  very  much  against  me  as  to 
that.  I  have  spent  some  years  in  and 
about  Eccelefechan  (where  my  parents  re- 
side,) in  the  station  of  a  servant,  and  am 
now  come  to  Loudon  House,  at  present 
possessed  by  Mrs.  H :  she  is  daugh- 
ter to  Mrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  whom  I  un- 
derstand you  are  particularly  acquainted 
with.  As  I  had  the  pleasure  of  perusing 
your  poems,  I  felt  a  partiality  for  the  au- 
thor, which  I  should  not  have  experienced 
had  you  been  in  a  more  dignified  station. 
I  wrote  a  few  verses  of  address  to  you 
which  I  did  not  then  think  of  ever  pre- 
senting ;  but  as  fortune  seems  to  have  fa- 
voured me  in  this,  by  bringing  me  into  a 
family,  by  whom  you  are  well  known  and 
much  esteemed,  and  where  perhaps  I  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you,  I  shall, 
in  hopes  of  your  future  friendship,  take 
the  liberty  to  transcribe  them. 


Fair  fa'  the  honest  rustic  swain 
Tlio  pride  o'  a'  our  Scottish  plain, 


LETTERS. 


143 


Thou  gio'D  us  Joy  to  hear  thy  strain, 
And  notes  sae  sweet : 

Old  Ramsay's  shade  reviv'd  again 
In  thee  we  greet. 

Lov'  (I  Thalia,  that  delightful  muse, 
Beero'd  lane  shut  up  as  a  recluse  ; 
To  all  she  did  her  aid  refuse, 

Since  Allan's  day ; 
Till  Burns  arose,  then  did  she  chuse 

To  grace  his  lay. 

To  hear  thy  sang  all  ranks  desire, 
Sae  weel  you  strike  the  dormant  lyre  ; 
Apollo  with  poetic  fire 

Thy  hreast  does  warm  ; 
And  critics  silently  admire 

Thy  art  to  charm. 

Osar  and  Luath  weel  can  speak, 
'Tis  pity  e'er  their  gabs  should  steek, 
But  into  human  nature  keek, 

And  knots  unravel: 
To  hear  their  lectures  once  a  week, 

Nine  miles  I'd  travel. 

Thy  dedication  to  G.  H. 

An  unco  bonnie  hamespun  speech, 

VVi'  winsome  glee  the  heart  can  teach 

A  better  lesson, 
Than  servile  bards,  who  fawn  and  fleech 

Like  beggar's  wesson. 

When  slighted  love  becomes  your  theme, 
And  women's  faithless  vows  you  blame ; 
With  so  much  pathos  you  exclaim, 

In  your  Lament; 
But  glanc'd  by  the  most  frigid  dame, 

She  would  relent. 

The  daisy  too,  ye  sing  wi'  skill ; 
And  weel  ye  praise  the  whisky  gill; 
In  vain  I  blunt  my  feckless  quill, 

Your  fame  to  raise  ; 
While  echo  sounds  from  ilka  hill, 

To  Burns's  praise. 

Did  Addison  or  Pope  but  hear, 
Or  Sam,  that  critic  most  severe, 
A  ploughboy  sing  with  throat  sae  clear 

They,  in  a  rage, 
Their  works  would  a'  in  pieces  tear, 

And  curse  your  page. 

Sure  Milton's  eloquence  were  faint, 
The  beauties  of  your  verse  to  paint; 
My  rude  unpolish'd  strokes  but  taint 

Their  brilliancy ; 
Th'  attempt  would  doubtless  vex  a  saint, 

And  weel  may  thee. 

The  task  I'll  drop— with  heart  sincere 
To  Heaven  present  my  humble  pray'r, 
That  all  the  blessings  mortals  share, 

May  be  by  turns 
Dispens'd  by  an  indulgent  care, 

To  Robert  Burns! 


Sir,  I  hopo  you  will  pardon  my  boldness 
in  this,  my  hand  trembles  while  I  write 
to  you,  conscious  of  my  miworlliiness  of 
what  I  would  most  earnestly  solicit,  viz. 
your  favour  and  friendship;  yet  hoping 
you  will  show  yourself  possessed  of  as 
much  generosity  and  good  nature  as  will 
prevent  your  exposing  what  may  justly 
be  found  liable  to  censure  in  this  mea- 
sure, I  shall  take  the  liberty  to  subscribe 
myself, 

Sir, 
Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 
JANET  LITTLE. 

P.  S.  If  you  would  condescend  to  ho- 
nour me  with  a  few  lines  from  your  hand, 
I  would  take  it  as  a  particular  favour ; 
and  direct  to  me  at  Loudon  House,  near 
Galston. 


No.  LXXIX. 

FROM  MR.  ****** 

London,  5th  August,  1789. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

Excuse  me  when  I  say,  that  the  un- 
common abilities  which  you  possess  must 
render  your  correspondence  very  accept- 
able to  any  one.  I  can  assure  you  I  am 
particularly  proud  of  your  partiality,  and 
shall  endeavour,  by  every  method  in  my 
power  to  merit  a  continuance  of  your  po- 
liteness. 


When  you  can  spare  a  few  moments,  I 
should  be  proud  of  a  letter  from  you,  di- 
rected for  me,  Gerard-street,  Soho. 


I  cannot  express  my  happiness  suffi- 
ciently at  the  instance  of  your  attachment 
to  my  late  inestimable  friend,  Bob  Fer- 
gusson,*  who  was  particularly  intimate 
with  myself  and  relations.  While  I  re- 
collect with  pleasure  his  extraordinary 
talents,  and  many  amiable  qualities,  it  af- 
fords me  the  greatest  consolation  that  I 
am  honoured  with  the  correspondence  of 
his  successor  in  national  simplicity  and 
genius.  That  Mr.  Burns  has  refined  in 
the  art  of  poetry,  must  readily  be  admit- 

♦  The  erection  of  a  monument  to  him. 


144 


LETTERS. 


ted;  but  notwithstanding  many  favoura- 
ble representations,  I  am  yet  to  learn  that 
he  inherits  his  convivial  powers. 

There  was  such  a  richness  of  conver- 
sation, such  a  plenitude  of  fancy  and  at- 
traction in  him,  that  when  I  call  the  hap- 
py period  of  our  intercourse  to  my  memo- 
ry, I  feel  myself  in  a  state  of  delirium.  I 
was  then  younger  than  him  by  eight  or 
ten  years,  but  his  manner  was  so  felici- 
tous, that  he  enraptured  every  person 
around  him,  and  infused  into  the  hearts 
of  the  young  and  the  old  the  spirit  and 
animation  which  operated  on  his  own 
mind. 

I  am,  Dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.  LXXX. 

TO  MR.  *****. 
In  answer  to  the  foregoing. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

The  hurry  of  a  farmer  in  this  parti- 
cular season,  and  the  indolence  of  a  poet 
at  all  times  and  seasons,  will,  I  hope, 
plead  my  excuse  for  neglecting  so  long  to 
answer  your  obliging  letter  of  the  5th  of 
August. 

That  you  have  done  well  in  quitting 
your  laborious  concern  in  ****  I  do  not 
doubt :  the  weighty  reasons  you  mention 
were,  I  hope,  very,  deservedly,  indeed, 
weighty  ones,  and  your  health  is  a  mat- 
ter of  the  last  importance :  but  whether 
the  remaining  proprietors  of  the  paper 
have  also  done  well,  is  what  I  much  doubt. 
The  ****,  so  far  as  I  was  a  reader,  exhi- 
bited such  a  brilliancy  of  point,  such  an 
elegance  of  paragraph,  and  such  a  variety 
of  intelligence,  that  I  can  hardly  conceive 
it  possible  to  continue  a  daily  paper  in  the 
same  decree  of  excellence;  but,  if  there 
was  a  man  who  had  abilities  equal  to  the 
task,  that  man's  assistance  the  proprie- 
tors have  lost. 


When  T  received  your  letter,  T  was 
transcribing  for  ****,  my  letter  to  the  ma- 
gistrates of  the  Canongate,  Edinburgh, 
begging  their  permission  to  place  a  tomb- 
stone over  poor  Fergusson,and  their  edict, 
in  consequence  of  my  petition,  but  now  I 


shall  send  them  to  *  *  *  *  Poor 
Fergusson  !  If  there  be  a  life  beyond  the 
grave,  which  I  trust  there  is ;  and  if  there 
be  a  good  God  presiding  over  all  nature, 
which  I  am  sure  there  is,  thou  art  now 
enjoying  existence  in  a  glorious  world, 
where  worth  of  the  heart  alone  is  distinc- 
tion in  the  man  ;  where  riches,  deprived 
of  all  their  pleasure-purchasing  powers, 
return  to  their  native  sordid  matter : 
where  titles  and  honour  are  the  disre- 
garded reveries  of  an  idle  dream  ;  and 
where  that  heavy  virtue,  which  is  the  ne- 
gative consequence  of  steady  dulness,  and 
those  thoughtless,  though  often  destruc- 
tive follies,  which  are  the  unavoidable 
aberations  of  frail  human  nature,  will  be 
thrown  into  equal  oblivion  as  if  they  had 
never  been. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir !  So  soon  as  youj* 
present  views  and  schemes  are  concen- 
tred in  an  aim,  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear 
from  you  ;  as  your  welfare  and  happiness 
is  by  no  means  a  subject  indifferent  to 

Yours,  &c. 


No.  LXXXI. 
TO  MISS  WILLIAMS. 


1789. 


MADAM, 


Of  the  many  problems  in  the  nature 
of  that  wonderful  creature,  Man,  this  is 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary,  that  he 
shall  go  on  from  day  to  day,  from  week  to 
week,  from  month  to  month,  or  perhaps 
from  year  to  year,  suffering  a  hundred 
times  more  in  an  hour  from  the  impotent 
consciousness  of  neglecting  what  we 
ought  to  do,  than  the  very  doing  of  it 
would  cost  him.  I  am  deeply  indebted 
to  you,  first  for  a  most  elegant  poetic 
compliment;*  then  for  a  polite  obliging 
letter;  and  lastly,  for  your  excellent  po- 
em on  the  Slave-trade  ;  and  yet,  wretch 
that  I  am!  though  the  debts  were  debts 
of  honour,  and  the  creditor  a  lady,  I  have 
put  off,  and  put  oil",  even  the  very  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  obligation,  until  you  must 
indeed  be  the  very  angel  I  take  you  for, 
if  you  can  forgive  me. 

Your  poem  I  have  read  with  the  high- 
est pleasure.     I  have  a  way,  whenever  I 

*  See  Miss  Smith's  Sonnet,  page  101.— note 


LETTERS. 


145 


read  a  book,  I  mean  a  book  in  our  own 
trade,  Madam,  a  poetic  one,  and  when  it 
is  my  own  property,  that  I  take  a  pencil 
and  mark  at  the  ends  of  verses,  or  note 
on  margins  and  odd  paper,  little  criticisms 
of  approbation  or  disapprobation  as  I  pe- 
ruse along.  I  will  make  no  apology  for 
presenting  you  with  a  few  unconnected 
thoughts  that  occurred  to  me  in  my  re- 
peated perusals  of  your  peem.  I  want  to 
slmw  you  that  1  have  honesty  enough  to 
tell  you  what  I  take  to  be  truths,  even 
when  they  are  not  epiite  on  the  side  of 
approbation ;  and  1  do  it  in  the  firm  faith, 
that  you  have  equal  greatness  of  mind  to 
hear  them  witli  pleasure. 

I  had  lately  the  honour  of  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Moore,  where  he  tells  me  that  he  has 
sent  me  some  books.  They  are  not  yet 
come  to  hand,  but  I  hear  they  are  on  the 
way. 

Wishing  you  all  success  in  your  pro- 
gress in  the  path  of  fame ;  and  that  you 
may  equally  escape  the  danger  of  stum- 
bling1 through  incautious  speed,  or  losing 
ground  through  loitering  neglect. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 


No.  LXXXII. 
FROM  MISS  WILLIAMS. 

1th  August,  1789. 

PEAR  SIR, 

I  do  not  lose  a  moment  in  returning 
you  my  sincere  acknowledgments  for  your 
letter,  and  your  criticism  on  my  poem, 
which  is  a  very  flattering  proof  that  you 
have  read  it  with  attention.  I  think  your 
objections  are  perfectly  just,  except  in 
one  instance. 


You  have  indeed  been  very  profuse  of 
panegyric  on  my  little  performance.  A 
much  less  portion  of  applause  from  you 
would  have  been  gratifying  to  me ;  since 
I  think  its  value  depends  entirely  upon 
the  source  from  whence  it  proceeds — the 
incense  of  praise,  like  other  incense,  is 
more  grateful  from  the  quality  than  the 
quantity  of  the  odour. 

I  hope  you  still  cultivate  the  pleasures 


of  poetry,  which  are  precious,  even  inde- 
pendent of  the  rewards  of  fame.  Perhaps 
the  most  valuable  property  of  poetry  is 
its  power  of  disengaging  the  mind  from 
worldly  cares,  and  leading  the  imagina- 
tion to  the  richest  springs  of  intellectual 
enjoyment;  since,  however  frequently  life 
may  be  chequered  with  gloomy  scenes, 
those  who  truly  love  the  Muse  can  always 
find  one  little  path  adorned  with  flowers 
and  cheered  by  sunshine. 


No.  LXXXIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  6th  Sept.  1780. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

I  have  mentioned,  in  my  last,  my 
appointment  to  the  Excise,  and  the  birth 
of  little  Frank,  who,  by  the  by,  I  trust 
will  be  no  discredit  to  the  honourable 
name  of  Wallace,  as  he  has  a  fine  manly 
countenance,  and  a  figure  that  might  do 
credit  to  a  little  fellow  two  months  older ; 
and  likewise  an  excellent  good  temper, 
though,  when  he  pleases,  he  has  a  pipe, 
only  not  quite  so  loud  as  the  horn  that  his 
immortal  namesake  blew  as  a  signal  to 
take  out  the  pin  of  Stirling  bridge. 

I  had  some  time  ago  an  epistle,  part 
poetic,  and  part  prosaic,  from  your  poet- 
ess, Mrs.  J.  Little,  a  very  ingenious  but 
modest  composition.  I  should  have  writ- 
ten her,  as  she  requested,  but  for  the  hur- 
ry of  this  new  business.  I  have  heard  of 
her  and  her  compositions  in  this  country ; 
and  I  am  happy  to  add,  always  to  the  ho- 
nour of  her  character.  The  fact  is,  I 
know  not  well  how  to  write  to  her :  I 
should  sit  down  to  a  sheet  of  paper  that 
I  knew  not  how  to  stain.  I  am  no  dab  at 
fine-drawn  letter-writing ;  and  except 
when  prompted  by  friendship  or  gratitude, 
or,  which  happens  extremely  rarely,  in- 
spired by  the  Muse  (I  know  not  her  name) 
that  presides  over  epistolary  writing,  I  sit 
down,  when  necessitated  to  write,  as  I 
would  sit  down  to  beat  hemp. 

Some  parts  of  your  letter  of  the  20th 
August  struck  me  with  the  most  melan- 
choly concern  for  the  state  of  your  mind 
at  present. 


146 


LETTERS. 


Would  I  could  write  you  a  letter  of 
comfort !  I  would  sit  down  to  it  with  as 
much  pleasure  as  I  would  to  write  an 
Epic  poem  of  my  own  composition  that 
should  equal  the  Iliad.  Religion,  my 
dear  friend,  is  the  true  comfort.  A  strong 
persuasion  in  a  future  state  of  existence  ; 
a  proposition  so  obviously  probable,  that, 
setting  revelation  aside,  every  nation  and 
people,  so  far  as  investigation  has  reached, 
for  at  least  near  four  thousand  years,  have 
in  some  mode  or  other  firmly  believed  it. 
In  vain  would  we  reason  and  pretend  to 
doubt.  I  have  myself  done  so  to  a  very 
daring  pitch :  but  when  I  reflected  that  I 
was  opposing  the  most  ardent  wishes, 
and  the  most  darling  hopes  of  good  men, 
and  flying  in  the  face  of  all  human  belief, 
in  all  ages,  I  was  shocked  at  my  own  con- 
duct. 

I  know  not  whether  I  have  ever  sent 
you  the  following  lines,  or  if  you  have 
ever  seen  them  ;  but  it  is  one  of  my  fa- 
vourite quotations,  which  I  keep  con- 
stantly by  me  in  my  progress  through 
life,  in  the  language  of  the  book  of  Job, 

"  Against  the  day  of  battle  and  of  war" 

spoken  of  religion. 

"  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning  bright, 

'Tis  tMs  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 

When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends  are  few; 

When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes  pursue ; 

'Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the  smart, 

Disarms  affliction,  or  repels  his  dart; 

Within  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 

Bids  smiling  conscience  spread  her  cloudless  skies." 

I  have  been  very  busy  with  Zcluco. 
The  Doctor  is  so  obliging  as  to  request 
my  opinion  of  it ;  and  I  have  been  revolv- 
ing in  my  mind  some  kind  of  criticisms 
on  novel-writing,  but  it  is  a  depth  beyond 
my  research.  I  shall,  however,  digest 
my  thoughts  on  the  subject  as  well  as  I 
can.  Zcluco  is  a  most  sterling  perform- 
ance. 

Farewell !  Dieu,  le  bon  Dieu,  je  vous 
commende  ! 


No.  LXXXIV. 
FROM  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh,  2ith  August,  1789. 
Dear  Bums,  thou  brother  of  my  heart, 
Both  for  thy  virtues  and  thy  art ; 


If  art  it  may  be  call'd  in  thee, 

Which  nature's  bounty,  large  and  free> 

With  pleasure  on  thy  breast  diffuses, 

And  warms  thy  soul  with  all  the  Muses. 

Whether  to  laugh  with  easy  grace, 

Thy  numbers  move  the  sage's  face, 

Or  bid  the  softer  passion  rise, 

And  ruthless  souls  with  grief  surprise, 

'Tis  nature's  voice  distinctly  felt, 

Through  thee  her  organ,  thus  to  melt. 

Most,  anxiously  I  wish  to  know, 
Willi  thee  of  late  how  matters  go  ; 
How   keeps  thy  much-loved   Jean    her 

health  ? 
What  promises  thy  farm  of  wealth  ? 
Whether  the  muse  persists  to  smile, 
And  all  thy  anxious  cares  beguile? 
Whether  bright  fancy  keeps  alive  ? 
And  how  thy  darling  infants  thrive  ? 

For  me,  with  grief  and  sickness  spent, 
Since  I  my  journey  homeward  bent, 
Spirits  depress'd  no  more  I  mourn, 
But  vigour,  life,  and  health  return, 
No  more  to  gloomy  thoughts  a  preyj 
I  sleep  all  night,  and  live  all  day ; 
By  turns  my  book  and  friend  enjoy, 
And  thus  my  circling  hours  employ  ! 
Happy  while  yet  these  hours  remain 
If  Burns  could  join  the  cheerful  train, 
With  wonted  zeal,  sincere  and  fervent, 
Salute  once  more  his  humble  servant, 
THO.  BLACKLOCK. 


No.  LXXXV. 

TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK— See  Poems, 
p.  81. 


No.  LXXXVI. 
TO  R.  GRAHAM.  ESQ.  OF  FINTRY. 

9th  December,  1789. 

SIR, 

I  have  a  good  while  had  a  wish  to 
trouble  ypu  with  a  letter,  and  had  cer- 
tainly done  it  ere  now — but  for  a  humi- 
liating something  that  throws  cold  water 
on  the  resolution,  as  if  one  should  say, 
"  You  have  found  Mr.  Graham  a  very 
powerful  and  kind  friend  indeed ;  and 
l  hat  interest  he  is  so  kindly  taking  in  your 
concerns,  you  ought,  by  every  thing  in 
your  power  to  keep  alive  and  cherish." 


LETTERS. 


147 


Now  though  since  God  has  thought  pro- 
per to  make  one  powerful  and  another 
helpless,  the  connexion  of  obligcr  and 
obliged  is  all  fair;  and  though  my  being 
under  your  patronage  is  to  me  highly  ho- 
nourable, yet,  Sir,  allow  me  to  flatter 
myself,  that  as  a  poet  and  an  honest  man, 
you  first  interested  yourself  in  my  wel- 
fare, and  principally  as  such  still,  you  per- 
.   mit  me  to  approach  you. 

I  have  found  the  excise-business  go  on 
a  great  deal  smoother  with  me  than  I  ex- 
pected; owing  a  good  deal  to  the  gene- 
rous friendship  of  Mr.  Mitchell,  my  col- 
Jcctor,  and  the  kind  assistance  of  Mr. 
Findlater,  my  supervisor.  I  dare  to  be 
honest,  and  I  fear  no  labour.  Nor  do  I 
find  my  hurried  life  greatly  inimical  to 
my  correspondence  with  the  Muses. 
Their  visits  to  me,  indeed,  and  I  believe 
to  most  of  their  acquaintance,  like  the 
visits  of  good  angels,  are  short  and  far 
between ;  but  I  meet  them  now  and  then 
as  I  jog  through  the  hills  of  Nithsdale, 
just  as  I  used  to  do  on  the  banks  of  Ayr. 
I  take  the  liberty  to  enclose  you  a  few 
bagatelles,  all  of  them  the  productions 
of  my  leisure  thoughts  in  my  excise 
.  rides. 

If  you  know  or  have  ever  seen  Captain 
Grose  the  antiquarian,  you  will  enter  into 
any  humour  that  is  in  the  verses  on  him. 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  them  before,  as 
I  sent  them  to  a  London  newspaper. 
Though  I  dare  say  you  have  none  of  the 
solemn-league-and-covenant  fire,  which 
shone  so  conspicuous  in  Lord  George 
Gordon  and  the  Kilmarnock  weavers,  yet 
T  think  you  must  have  heard  of  Dr.  M'Gill, 
one  of  the  clergymen  of  Ayr,  and  his  he- 
retical book.  God  help  him,  poor  man  ! 
Though  he  is  one  of  the  worthiest,  as  well 
as  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  whole  priest- 
hood of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  in  every 
sense  of  that  ambiguous  term,  yet  the 
poor  Doctor  and  his  numerous  family  are 
in  imminent  danger  of  being  thrown  out 
to  the  mercy  of  the  winter-winds.  The 
enclosed  ballad  on  that  business  is,  I  con- 
fess, too  local,  but  I  laughed  myself  at 
some  conceits  in  it,  though  I  am  convin- 
ced in  my  conscience  that  there  are  a 
good  many  heavy  stanzas  in  it  too. 

The  election  ballad,  as  you  will  see, 
alludes  to  the  present  canvass  in  our  string 
of  boroughs.     I  do  not  believe  thero  will 


bo  such  a  hard-run  match  in  the  whole 
general  election.* 


I  am  too  little  a  man  to  have  any  po- 
litical attachments ;  I  am  deeply  indebted 
to,  and  have  the  warmest  veneration  for, 
individuals  of  both  parties  ;  but  a  man 
who  has  it  in  his  power  to  be  the  father 
of  a  country,  and  who  *  *  *  * 
is  a  character  that  one  cannot  speak  of 
with  patience. 

Sir  J.  J.  does  "  what  man  can  do ;"  but 
yet  I  doubt  his  fate. 


No.  LXXXVII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  13th  December,  1789. 

Many  thanks,  dear  Madam,  for  your 
sheetful  of  rhymes.     Though  at  present 
I  am  below  the  veriest  prose,  yet  from 
you  every  thing  pleases.     I  am  groaning 
under  the  miseries  of  a  diseased  nervous 
system ;  a  system,  the  state  of  which  is  most 
conducive  to  our  happiness — or  the  most 
productive  of  our  misery.     For  now  near 
three  weeks  I  have  been  so  ill  with  the 
nervous  head-ache,  that  I  have  been  oblig- 
ed to  give  up  for  a  time  my  excise-books, 
being  scarcely  able  to  lift  my  head,  much 
less  to  ride  once  a  week  over  ten  muir 
parishes.     What  is  man  ?  To-day  in  the 
luxuriance  of  health,  exulting  in  the  en- 
joyment of  existence ;  in  a  few  days,  per- 
haps in  a  few  hours,  loaded  with  conscious 
painful  being,  counting  the  tardy  pace  of 
the  lingering  moments  by  the  repercus- 
sions of  anguish,  and  refusing  or  denied  a 
comforter,   day  follows  night,  and   night 
comes  after  day,  only  to  curse  him  with 
life  which  gives  him  no  pleasure ;  and  yet 
the  awful,  dark  termination  of  that  life  is 
a  something  at  which  he  recoils. 

"  Tell  us,  ye  dead  ;  will  none  of  you  in  pity 

Disclose  the  secret 

What  'tis  you  arc,  and  we  must  shortly  be  I 
'tis  no  matter: 


A  little  time  will  make  us  leam'd  as  you  ;ire. 

*  This  alludes  to  the  conU'st  for  the  horouph  of  Dum- 
fries, between  the  Duke  of  ftucensbcrry's  interest  and 
that  of  Sir  James  Johnstone.    E. 


148 


LETTERS. 


Can  it  be  possible,  that  when  I  resign 
this  frail,  feverish  being,  I  shall  still  rind 
myself  in  conscious  existence  !  When  the 
last  gasp  of  agony  has  announced  that  I 
am  no  more  to  those  that  knew  me,  and 
tbe  few  who  loved  me ;  when  the  cold, 
stiffened,  unconscious,  ghastly  corse  is  re- 
signed into  the  earth,  to  be  the  prey  of 
unsightly  reptiles,  and  to  become  in  time 
a  trodden  clod,  shall  I  be  yet  warm  in 
life,  seeing  and  seen,  enjoying  and  en- 
joyed?    Ye  venerable  sages,  and  holy 
llamens,  is  there  probability  in  your  con- 
jectures, truth  in  your  stories,  of  another 
world  beyond  death  ;  or,  are  they  all  alike, 
baseless  visions,  and  fabricated  fables  ?  If 
there  is  another  life,  it  must  be  only  for 
the  just,  the  benevolent,  the  amiable,  and 
•  the  humane :  what  a  flattering  idea,  then, 
is  a  world  to  come  !  Would  to  God  I  as 
firmly  believed  it,  as  I  ardently  wish  it  ! 
There  I  should  meet  an  aged  parent,  now 
at  rest  from  the  many  buftetings  of  an  evil 
world,  against  which  he  so  long  and  so 
bravely  struggled.     There  should  I  meet 
the  friend,  the  disinterested  friend  of  my 
early  life ;  the  man  who  rejoiced  to  see 
me,  because  he  loved  me  and  could  serve 

me. Muir;  thy  weaknesses,   were 

the  aberrations  of  human  nature,  but  thy 
heart  glowed  with  every  thing  generous, 
manly  and  noble;  and  if  ever  emanation 
from  the  All-good  Being  animated  a  hu- 
man form,  it  is  thine  ! — There  should  I, 
with  speechless  agony  of  rapture,  again 
recognise  my  lost,  my  ever  dear  Mary ! 
whose  bosom  was  fraught  with  truth,  ho- 
nour, constancy,and  love. 


My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  heavenly  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ; 

'Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


Jesus  Christ,  thou  amiablest  of  charac- 
ters !  I  trust  thou  art  no  impostor,  and 
that  thy  revelation  of  blissful  scenes  of 
existence  beyond  death  and  the  grave,  is 
not  one  of  the  many  impositions  which, 
time  after  time,  have  been  palmed  on 
credulous  mankind.  T  trust  that  in  thee 
"  shall  all  the  families  of  the  earth  be 
blessed,?'  by  being  yet  connected  together 
in  a  better  world,  where  every  tie  that 
bound  lreurt  to  heart  in  this  state  of  ex- 
istence, shall  be,  far  beyond  our  present 
conceptions,  more  endearing. 

I  am  a  good  deal  inclined  to  think  with 
those  who  maintain,  that  what  are  called 


nervous  affections  are  in  fact  diseases  of 
the  mind.  I  cannot  reason,  I  cannot 
think ;  and  but  to  you  I  would  not  ven- 
ture to  write  any  thing  above  an  order  to 
a  cobbler.  You  have  felt  too  much  of  the 
ills  of  life  not  to  sympathize  with  a  dis- 
eased wretch,  who  is  impaired  more  than 
half  of  any  faculties  he  possessed.  Your 
goodness  will  excuse  this  distracted 
scrawl,  which  the  writer  dare  scarcely 
read,  and  which  he  would  throw  into  the 
fire  were  he  able  to  write  any  thing  bet- 
ter, or  indeed  any  thing  at  all. 

Rumour  told  me  something  of  a  son  of 
yours  who  was  returned  from  the  East  or 
West-Indies.  If  you  have  gotten  news 
of  James  or  Anthony,  it  was  cruel  in  you 
not  to  let  me  know ;  as  I  promise  you  on 
the  sincerity  of  a  man  who  is  weary  of 
one  world  and  anxious  about  another, 
that  scarce  any  thing  could  give  me  so 
much  pleasure  as  to  hear  of  any  good 
thing  befalling  my  honoured  friend. 

If  you  have  a  minute's  leisure,  take  up 
your  pen  in  pity  to  le  pauvre  miserable. 

R.  B. 


No.  LXXXVIII. 
TO  SIR  JOHN  SINCLAIR. 

SIR, 

The  following  circumstance  has,  1 
believe,  been  omitted  in  the  statistical  ac- 
count transmitted  to  you,  of  the  parish  of 
Dunscore,  in  Nithsdab.  I  beg  leave  to 
send  it  to  you,  because  it  is  new,  and  may 
be  useful.  How  far  it  is  deserving  of  a 
place  in  your  patriotic  publication,  you 
are  the  best  judge. 

To  store  the  minds  of  the  lower  classes 
with  useful  knowledge  is  certainly  of  very 
great  importance,  both  to  them  as  indi- 
viduals, and  to  society  at  largo.  Giving 
them  a  turn  for  reading  and  reflection,  is 
giving  them  a  source  of  innocent  and  laud- 
able amusement ;  and,  besides,  raises  them 
to  a  more  dignified  degree  in  the  scale  of 
rationality.  Impressed  with  this  idea,  a 
gentleman  in  this  parish,  Robert  Riddel, 
Esq.  of  Glenriddel,  set  on  foot  a  species 
of  circulating  library,  on  a  plan  so  simple 
as  to  be  practicable  in  any  corner  of  the 
country;  and  so  useful  as  to  deserve  the 
notice  of  every  country  gentleman,  who 


LETTERS. 


MO 


thinks  the  improvement  of  that  part  of  his 
own  species,  whom  chance  has  thrown  in- 
to the  humble  walks  of  the  peasant  and 
the  artisan,  a  matter  worthy  of  his  atten- 
tion. 

Mr.  Riddel  got  a  number  of  his  own 
tenants,  and  farming  neighbours,  to  form 
themselves  into  a  society  for  the  purpose 
of  having  a  library  among  themselves. 
They  entered  into  a  legal  engagement  to 
abide  by  it  for  three  years ;  with  a  saving 
clause  or  two,  in  case  of  a  removal  to  a 
distance,  or  of  death.  Each  member,  at 
his  entry,  paid  five  shillings ;  and  at  each 
of  their  meetings,  which  were  held  every 
fourth  Saturday,  sixpence  more.  With 
1 heir  entry-money,  and  the  credit  which 
they  took  on  the  faith  of  their  future 
funds,  they  laid  in  a  tolerable  stock  of 
books,  at  the  commencement.  What  au- 
thors they  were  to  purchase,  was  always 
decided  by  the  majority.  At  every  meet- 
ing, all  the  books,  under  certain  fines  and 
forfeitures,  by  way  of  penalty,  were  to  be 
produced :  and  the  members  had  their 
choice  of  the  volumes  in  rotation.  He 
whose  name  stood  for  that  night  first  on 
the  list,  had  his  choice  of  what  volume  he 
pleased  in  the  whole  collection ;  the  second 
had  his  choice  after  the  first ;  the  third  af- 
ter the  second ;  and  so  on  to  the  last.  At 
next  meeting,  he  who  had  been  first  on 
the  list  at  the  preceding  meeting  was  last 
at  this ;  he  who  had  been  second  was  first ; 
and  so  on  through  the  whole  three  years. 
At  the  expiration  of  the  engagement,  the 
books  were  sold  by  auction,  but  only 
among  the  members  themselves ;  and  each 
man  had  share  of  the  common  stock,  in 
money  or  in  books,  as  he  chose  to  be  a 
purchaser  or  not. 

At  the  hre  ng  up  of  this  little  socie- 
ty, which  was  formed  under  Mr.  Riddel's 
patronage,  what  with  benefactions  of 
books  from  him,  and  what  with  their  own 
purchases,  they  had  collected  together 
upwards  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  volumes. 
It  will  easily  be  guessed,  that  a  good  deal 
of  trash  would  be  bought.  Among  the 
books,  however,  of  this  little  library,  were, 
Blair's  Sermons,  Robertson's  History  of 
Scotland,  Hume's  History  of  the  Stuarts, 
The  Spectator,  Idler,  Adventurer,  Mirror, 
Lounger,  Observer,  Man  of  Feeling,  Man 
of  the  World,  Chrysal,  Don  Quixotte,  Jo- 
seph Andrews,  &c.  A  peasant  who  can 
read  and  enjoy  such  books,  is  certainly  a 
much  superior  being  to  his  neighbour,  who 
perhaps  stalks  beside  his  team,  very  little 


removed,  except  in  shape,  from  the  brutes 
he  drives.* 

Wishing  your  patriotic  exertions  their 
so  much-merited  success, 

I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

A  PEASANT. 


No.  LXXXIX. 

TO  CHARLES  SHARPE,  ESQ. 
OF  HODDAM. 

Under  a  fictitious  Signature,  enclosing  a 
ballad,  1790,  or  1791. 

It  is  true,  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman 
of  rank  and  fortune,  and  I  am  a  poor  de- 
vil ;  you  are  a  feather  in  the  cap  of  soci 
ety,  and  I  am  a  very  hobnail  in  his  shoes; 
yet  I  have  the  honour  to  belong  to  the 
same  family  with  you,  and  on  that  score  I 
now  address  you.  You  will  perhaps  sus- 
pect that  I  am  going  to  claim  affinity  with 
the  ancient  and  honourable  house  of  Kil- 
patrick :  No,  no,  Sir :  I  cannot  indeed  be 
properly  said  to  belong  to  any  house,  or 
even  any  province  or  kingdom,  as  my  mo- 
ther, who  for  many  years  was  spouse  to  a 
marching  regiment,  gave  me  into  this  bad 
world,  aboard  the  packet  boat,  somewhere 
between  Donaghadee  andPortpatrick.  By 
our  common  family,  I  mean,  Sir,  the  fa- 
mily of  the  Muses.  I  am  a  fiddler  and  a 
poet ;  and  you,  I  am  told,  play  an  exqui- 

*  This  letter  is  extracted  from  the  third  volume  of 
Sir  John  Sinclair's  Statistics,  p.  598. — It  was  enclosed 
to  Sir  John  by  Mr.  Riddel  himself,  in  the  following  let- 
ter, also  printed  there. 

"  Sir  John,  I  enclose  you  a  letter,  written  by  Mr 
Burns,  as  an  addition  to  the  account  of  Dunscore  parish. 
It  contains  an  account  of  a  small  library  which  he  was 
so  good  (at  my  desire)  as  to  set  on  foot,  in  the  barony 
of  Monkland,  or  Friar's  Carse,  in  this  parish.  As  its 
utility  has  been  felt,  particularly  among  the  younger 
class  of  people,  I  think,  that  if  a  similar  plan  were  es- 
tablished in  the  different  parishes  of  Scotland,  it  would 
tend  greatly  to  the  speedy  improvement  of  the  tenant- 
ry, trades-people,  and  work-people.  Mr.  Burns  was  so 
good  as  to  take  the  whole  charge  of  this  small  concern. 
He  was  treasurer,  librarian,  and  censor,  to  this  little 
society,  who  will  long  have  a  grateful  sense  of  his  pub- 
lic spirit  and  exertions  for  their  improvement  and  in- 
formation. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir  John, 
Yours,  most  sincerely, 

ROBERT  RIDDEL." 

To  Sir  John  Sinclair  of  Ulster,  Bart. 


150 


LETTERS. 


site  violin,  and  have  a  standard  taste  in 
the  Belles  Lettres.     The  other  day,  a 
brother  catgut  gave  me  a  charming  Scots 
air  of  your  composition.     If  I  was  pleased 
with  the  tune,  I  was  in  raptures  with  the 
title  you  have  given  it ;  and,  taking  up 
the  idea,  I  have  spun  it  into  three  stanzas 
enclosed.     Will  you  allow  me,  Sir,  to 
present  you  them,  as  the  dearest  offering 
that  a  misbegotten  son  of  poverty  and 
rhvme  has  to  give ;  I  have  a  longing  to 
take  you  by  the  hand  and  unburden  my 
heart  by  saying—"  Sir,  I  honour  you  as  a 
man  who  supports  the  dignity  of  human 
nature,  amid  an  age  when  frivolity  and 
avarice  have,  between  them,  debased  us 
below   the    brutes   that  perish  I"     But, 
alas,  Sir  !  to  me  you  arc  unapproachable. 
It  is  true,  the  Muses  baptized  me  in  Cas- 
talian  streams,  but  the  thoughtless  gip- 
sies forgot  to  give  me  a  Name.      As  the 
sex  have  served  many  a  good  fellow,  the 
Nine  have  given  me  a  great  deal  of  plea- 
sure, but  bewitching  jades!    they  have 
beggared  me.     Would  they  but  spare  me 
a  little  of  their  cast  linen!  were  it  only 
to  put  it  in  my  power  to  say  that  I  have 
a  shirt  on  my  back!  But  the  idle  wenches, 
like  Solomon's  lilies,  "  they  toil  not  nei- 
ther do  they  spin;"  So  I  must  e'en  con- 
tinue to  tie  my  remnant  of  a  cravat,  like 
the    hangman's  rope,  round  my   naked 
throat,  and  coax  my  galligaskins  to  keep 
together  their  many-coloured  fragments. 
As  to  the  affair  of  shoes,  I  have  given 
that  up. — My  pilgrimages  in  my  ballad- 
trade  from  town  to  town,  and  on  your 
stony-hearted  turnpikes  too,  are  what  not 
even  the  hide  of  Job's  Behemoth  could 
bear.     The  coat  on  my  back  is  no  more  : 
I  shall  not  speak  evil  of  the  dead.     It 
would   be  equally  unhandsome  and   un- 
grateful to  find  fault  with  my  old  surtout, 
which  so  kindly  supplies  and  conceals  the 
want  of  that  coat.     My  hat   indeed  is  a 
great  favourite  ;  and  though  I  got  it  lite- 
rally for  an  old  song,  I  would  not  exchange 
it  for  the  best  beaver  in  Britain.     I  was, 
during  several  years,  a  kind  of  factotum 
servant  to  a  country  clergyman,  where  I 
picked  up  a  good  many  scr;i  ps  of  learning, 
particularly  in  some  branches  of  the  ma- 
thematics.    Whenever  I  feel  inclined  to 
rest  myself  on  my  way,  I  take  my  seat 
under  a  hedge,  laying  my  poetic  wallet 
on  my  one  side,  and  my  fiddle-case  on  the 
other,  and  placing  my  hat  between  my 
legs,  I  can  by  means  of  its  brim,  or  ra- 
t  her  brims,  go  through  the  whole  doctrine 
of  the  Conic  Sections. 

However,  Sir,  don't  let  me  mislead  you, 


as  if  I  would  interest  your  pity.  Fortune 
has  so  much  forsaken  me,  that  she  has 
taught  me  to  live  without  her  ;  and,  amid 
all  my  rags  and  poverty,  I  am  as  inde- 
pendent, and  much  more  happy  than  a 
lin  march  of  the  world.  According  to  the 
hackneyed  metaphor,  I  value  the  several 
actors  in  the  great  drama  of  life,  simply 
as  they  act  their  parts.  I  can  look  on  a 
worthless  fellow  of  a  duke  with  unquali- 
fied contempt ;  and  can  regard  an  honest 
scavenger  with  sincere  respect.  As  you, 
Sir,  go  through  your  roll  with  such  dis- 
tinguished merit,  permit  me  to  make  one 
in  the  chorus  of  universal  applause,  and 
assure  you  that,  with  the  highest  respect, 
I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c 


No.  XC. 
TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

Ellisland,  11th  January,  1790 

DEAR.    BROTHER, 

I  mean  to  take  advantage  of  the  frank, 
though  I  have  not,  in  my  present  frame  of 
mind,  much  appetite  for  exertion  in  wri- 
ting. My  nerves  are  in  a  ****  state.  I 
feel  that  horrid  hypocondria  pervading 
every  atom  of  both  body  and  soul.  This 
farm  has  undone  my  enjoyment  of  myself. 
It  is  a  ruinous  affair  on  all  hands.  But 
let  it  go  to****!  I'll  fight  it  out  and  be  off 
with  it. 

We  have  gotten  a  set  of  very  decent 
players  here  just  now.  I  have  seen  them 
an  evening  or  two.  David  Campbell,  in 
Ayr,  wrote  to  me  by  the  manager  of  the 
company,  a  Mr.  Sutherland,  who  is  a  man 
of  apparent  worth.  On  New-Year-day 
evening  I  gave  him  the  following  pro- 
logue,* which  he  spouted  to  his  audience 
with  applause — 

I  can  no  more. — If  once  I  was  clear  of 
this  ****  farm,  I  should  respire  more  at 
ease. 


No.  XCI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  25th  January,  1790. 
It   has  been  owing  to  unremitting 
hurry  of  business  that  I  have  not  written 

*  This  prologue  is  piintcd  in  the  Toems,  p.  82 


LETTERS. 


151 


to  you,  Madam,  long  ere  now.  My  health 
is  greatly  better,  and  I  now  begin  once 
more  to  share  in  satisfaction  and  enjoy- 
ment with  the  rest  of  my  fellow-creatures. 

Many  thanks,  my  much  esteemed  friend, 
for  your  kind  letters ;  but  why  will  you 
make  me  run  the  risk  of  being  contemp- 
tible and  mercenary  in  my  own  eyes  ? 
When  I  pique  myself  on  my  independent 
spirit,  I  hope  it  is  neither  poetic  license, 
nor  poetic  rant;  and  I  am  so  flattered 
witli  the  honour  you  have  done  me,  in 
making  me  your  compeer  in  friendship 
and  friendly  correspondence,  that  I  can- 
not without  pain,  and  a  degree  of  morti- 
fication, be  reminded  of  the  real  inequali- 
ty between  our  situations. 

Most  sincerely  do  I  rejoice  with  you, 
dear  Madam,  in  the  good  news  of  Antho- 
ny. Not  only  your  anxiety  about  his  fate, 
but  my  own  esteem  for  such  a  noble, 
warm-hearted,  manly  young  fellow,  in  the 
little  I  had  of  his  acquaintance,  has  inter- 
ested me  deeply  in  his  fortunes. 

Falconer,  the  unfortunate  author  of  the 
Shipwreck,  which  you  so  much  admire,  is 
no  more.  After  witnessing  the  dreadful 
catastrophe  he  so  feelingly  describes  in 
his  poem,  and  after  weathering  many  hard 
gales  of  fortune,  he  went  to  the  bottom 
with  the  Aurora  frigate !  I  forget  what 
part  of  Scotland  had  the  honour  of  giving 
him  birth,  but  he  was  the  son  of  obscurity 
and  misfortune.*     He  was  one  of  those 

*  Falconer  was  in  early  life  a  sea- boy,  to  use  a  word 
Of  Sbalispeare,  on  board  a  man-of-war,  in  which  ca- 
pacity ho  attracted  the  notice  of  Campbell,  the  author 
of  the  satire  on  Dr.  Johnson,  entitled  Lexiphancs,  then 
purser  of  the  ship.  Campbell  took  him  as  his  servant, 
and  delighted  in  giving  him  instruction  ;  and  when 
Falconer  afterwards  acquired  celebrity,  boasted  of  him 
as  his  scholar.  The  Editor  had  this  information  from 
a  surgeon  of  a  man-of-war,  in  1777,  who  knew  both 
Campbell  and  Falconer,  and  who  himself  perished  soon 
after  by  shipwrock  on  the  coast  of  America. 

Though  the  death  of  Falconer  happened  so  lately  as 
1770  or  1771,  yet  in  the  biography  prefixed  by  Dr.  An- 
derson to  his  works,  in  the  complete  edition  of  the  roots 
of  Great  Britain,  it  is  said— " Of  the  family,  birth- 
place, and  education  of  William  Falconer,  there  are 
no  memorials."  On  the  authority  already  given,  it 
may  be  mentioned,  that  he  was  a  native  of  one  of  the 
towns  on  the  coast  of  Fife :  and  that  his  parents  who 
nad  suffered  some  misfortunes,  removed  to  one  of  the 
sea-ports  of  England,  where  they  both  died  soon  after, 
of  an  epidemic  fever,  leaving  poor  Falconer,  then  a 
boy,  forlorn  and  destitute.  In  consequence  of  which 
he  catered  on  board  a  man-of-war.  These  last  cir 
cumstances  are,  howover  less  certain.    E. 


daring  adventurous  spirits  whi  ch  Scotland, 
beyond  any  other  country,  is  remarkable 
for  producing.  Little  does  the  fond  mo- 
ther think,  as  she  hangs  delighted  over 
the  sweet  little  leech  at  Iter  bosom,  where 
the  poor  fellow  may  hereafter  wander, 
and  what  may  be  his  fate.  I  remember 
a  stanza  in  an  old  Scottish  ballad,  which 
notwithstanding  its  rude  simplicity,  speaks; 
feelingly  to  the  heart : 

"  Little  did  my  mother  think, 

That  day  she  cradled  me, 
What  land  I  was  to  travel  in, 

Or  what  death  1  should  die  !' 

Old  Scottish  songs  are,  you  know,  a 
favourite  study  and  pursuit  of  mine;  and 
now  I  am  on  that  subject,  allow  me  to 
give  you  two  stanzas  of  another  old  simple 
ballad,  which  I  am  sure  will  please  you. 
The  catastrophe  of  the  piece  is  a  poor 
ruined  female  lamenting  her  fate.  She 
concludes  with  this  pathetic  wish : 

"  O  that  my  father  had  ne'er  on  me  smil'd  ; 

O  that  my  mother  had  ne'er  to  me  sung: 
O  that  my  cradle  had  never  been  rock'd  ; 

But  that  I  had  died  when  I  was  young  ! 

0  that  the  grave  it  were  my  bed  ; 

My  blankets  were  my  winding  sheet ; 
The  clocks  and  the  worms  my  bedfellows  a' ; 
And  O  sae  sound  as  I  should  sleep  !" 

I  do  not  remember  in  all  my  reading  to 
have  met  with  any  thing  more  truly  the 
language  of  misery  than  the  exclamation 
in  the  last  line.  Misery  is  like  love  ;  to 
speak  its  language  truly,  the  author  must 
have  felt  it. 

I  am  every  day  expecting  the  doctor  to 
give  your  little  godson*  the  small-pox. 
They  are  rife  in  the  country,  and  I  trem- 
ble for  his  fate.  By  the  way  I  cannot 
help  congratulating  you  on  his  looks  and 
spirit.  Every  person  who  sees  him  ac- 
knowledges him  to  be  the  finest,  hand- 
somest child  he  has  ever  seen.  I  am  my- 
self delighted  with  the  manly  swell  of  his 
little  chest,  and  a  certain  miniature  dig- 
nity in  the  carriage  of  his  head,  and  the 
glance  of  his  fine  black  eye,  which  pro- 
mise the  undaunted  gallantry  of  an  inde- 
pendent mind. 

1  thought  to  have  sent  you  some  rhymes, 
but  time  forbids.  I  promise  you  poetry 
until  you  arc  tired  of  it,  next  time  I  have 
the  honour  of  assuring  you  how  truly  I 
am,  &c. 

*  The  bard's  second  son,  Francis.    E. 


152 


LETTERS. 


No.  XCII. 


FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

28th  January,  1790. 

In  some  instances  it  is  reckoned  un- 
pardonable to  quote  any  one's  own  words; 
but  the  value  I  have  for  your  friendship, 
nothing  can  more  truly  or  more  elegantly 
express  than 

'  Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear." 

Having  written  to  you  twice  without 
having  heard  from  you,  I  am  apt  to  think 
my  letters  have  miscarried.  My  conjec- 
ture is  only  framed  upon  the  chapter  of 
accidents  turning  up  against  me,  as  it  too 
often  does,  in  the  trivial,  and,  I  may  with 
truth  add,  the  more  important  affairs  of 
life ;  but  I  shall  continue  occasionally  to 
inform  yon  what  is  going  on  among  the 
circle  of  your  friends  in  these  parts.  In 
these  days  of  merriment,  I  have  frequent- 
ly heard  your  name  proclaimed  at  the  jo- 
vial board — under  the  roof  of  our  hospi- 
table friend   at    Stenhouse-mills ;  there 


"  Lingering  moments  numbered  with  care." 

I  saw  your  Address  to  the  JVew>  Year, 
in  the  Dumfries  Journal.  Of  your  pro- 
ductions I  shall  say  nothing  ;  but  my  ac- 
quaintance allege  that  when  your  name 
is  mentioned,  which  every  man  of  celebri- 
ty must  know  often  happens,  I  am  the 
champion,  the  Mendoza,  against  all  snarl- 
ing critics  and  narrow-minded  reptiles,  of 
whom  a  few  on  this  planet  do  crawl. 

With  best  compliments  to  your  wife, 
and  her  black-eyed  sister,  I  remain 

Yours,  &c. 


No.   XCIIL 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  13th  February,  1790. 

I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  and  much 
valued  friend,  for  writing  to  you  on  this 
very  unfashionable,  unsightly  sheet — 


"  My  poverty  but  not  my  will  consents.' 


But  to  make  amends,  since  on  modish 
post  I  have  none,  except  one  poor  widow- 
ed half-sheet  of  gilt,  which  lies  in  my 
drawer  among  my  plebeian  foolscap  pages, 
like  the  widow  of  a  man  of  fashion,  whom 
that  unpolite  scoundrel,  Necessity,  has 
driven  from  Burgundy  and  Pine-apple,  to 
a  dish  of  Bohea,  with  the  scandal-bearing 
help-mate  of  a  village-priest ;  or  a  glass 
of  whisky-toddy,  with  the  ruby-nosed 
yoke-fellow  of  a  foot-padding  exciseman 
— I  make  a  vow  to  enclose  this  sheet-full 
of  epistolary  fragments  in  that  my  only 
scrap  of  gilt  paper. 

I  am  indeed  your  unworthy  debtor  for 
three  friendly  letters.  I  ought  to  have 
written  to  you  long  ere  now,  but  it  is  a 
literal  fact,  I  have  scarcely  a  spare  mo- 
ment. It  is  not  that  I  will  not  write  to 
you ;  Miss  Burnet  is  not  more  dear  to  her 
guardian  angel,  nor  his  grace  the  Duke 
0f*********  ^o  the  powers  of  *****  than 
my  friend  Cunningham  to  me.  It  is  not 
that  I  cannot  write  to  you ;  should  you 
doubt  it,  take  the  following  fragment 
which  was  intended  for  you  some  time 
ago,  and  be  convinced  that  I  can  antithe- 
size  sentiment,  and  circumvolule  periods, 
as  well  as  any  coiner  of  phrase  in  the  re- 
gions of  philology. 

December,  1789. 

MY  DEAR  CUNNINGHAM, 

Where  are  you  .'  and  what  are  you 
doing?  Can  you  be  that  son  of  levity  who 
takes  up  a  friendship  as  he  takes  up  a 
fashion ;  or  are  you,  like  some  other  of 
the  worthiest  -fellows  in  the  world,  the 
victim  of  indolence,  laden  with  fetters  of 
ever-increasing  weight  ? 

What  strange  beings  we  are !  Since  we 
have  a  portion  of  conscious  existence, 
equally  capable  of  enjoying  pleasure,  hap- 
piness, and  rapture,  or  of  suffering  pain, 
wretchedness,  and  misery,  it  is  surely 
worthy  of  an  inquiry  whether  there  be 
not  such  a  thing  as  a  science  of  life  ,  whe- 
ther method,  economy,  and  fertility  of  ex- 
pedients, be  not  applicable  to  enjoyment; 
and  whether  there  be  not  a  want  of  dex- 
terity in  pleasure  which  renders  our  little 
scantling  of  happiness  still  less;  and  a 
profuseness  and  intoxication  in  bliss, 
which  leads  to  satiety,  disgust,  and  self 
abhorrence.  There  is  not  a  doubt  but 
that  health,  talents,  character,  decent 
competency,  respectable  friends,  are  real 


LETTERS. 


153 


substantial  blessings  ;  and  yet  do  we  not 
daily  see  those  who  enjoy  many  or  all  of 
these  pood  things,  contrive,  notwith- 
standing, to  be  as  unhappy  as  others  to 
whose  lot  few  of  them  have  fallen:  I  be- 
lieve  one  great  source  of  this  mistake  or 
misconduct  is  owing  to  a  certain  stimulus, 
with  us  called  ambition,  which  goads  us 
up  the  hill  of  life,  not  as  we  ascend  other 
eminences,  for  the  laudable  curiosity  of 
viewing  an  extended  landscape,  hut  rather 
for  the  dishonest  pride  of  looking  down  on 
others  of  our  fellow-creatures,  seemingly 
diminutive  in  humbler  stations,  &c.  &c. 


Sunday,  14th  February,  1790. 


God  help  me  !  I  am  now  obliged  to 


join 

"  Night  to  day,  and  Sunday  to  tlic  wcuk." 

If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  orthodox  faith 
of  these  churches,  I  am  *****  past  redemp- 
tion, and  what  is  worse,  *****  to  all  eter- 
nity. I  am  deeply  read  in  Boston's  Four- 
fold State,  Marshal  on  Sanctijication,  Gu- 
thrie's Trial  of  a  Saving  Interest,  &c.  ; 
but  "  there  is  no  balm  in  Gilead,  there  is 
no  physician  there,"  for  me;  so  I  shall 
e'en  turn  Arminian,  and  trust  to  "  sincere, 
though  imperfect  obedience." 


Tuesday,  16th. 

Luckily  for  me  I  was  prevented  from 
the  discussion  of  the  knotty  point  at  which 
I  had  just  made  a  full  stop.  All  my  fears 
and  cares  arc  of  this  world :  if  there  is 
another,  an  honest  man  has  nothing  to 
fear  from  it.  I  hate  a  man  that  wishes  to 
be  a  Deist ;  but,  I  fear  every  fair,  unpre- 
judiced inquirer  must  in  some  degree  be 
a  Sceptic.  It  is  not  that  there  are  any 
very  staggering  arguments  against  the 
immortality  of  man  ;  but  like  electricity, 
phlogiston,  &c.  the  subject  is  so  involved 
in  darkness,  that  we  want  data  to  go  upon. 
One  thing  frightens  me  much :  that  we 
are  to  live  for  ever,  seems  too  good  news 
to  he  true.  That  we  are  to  enter  into  a 
new  scene  of  existence,  where  exempt 
from  want  and  pain,  we  shall  enjoy  our- 
selves and  our  friends  without  satiety  or 
separation — how  much  should  I  be  in- 
debted to  any  one  who  could  fully  assure 
mo  that  this  was  certain. 


My  time  is  once  more  expired.     I  will 

write  to  Mr.  Cleghorn  soon.     God  bless 

him  and  all  his  concerns.     And  may  all 

the  powers  that  preside  over  conviviality 

and  friendship,  be  present  with  all  their 

kindest  inlluencc,  when  the  bearer  of  this, 

Mr.  Syme,  and  you  meet !  I  wish  I  could 

also  make  one. — I  think  we  should  be     * 
*     *     * 

Finally,  brethren,  farewell !  Whatso- 
ever things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things 
are  gentle,  whatsoever  things  are  chari- 
table, whatsoever  things  are  kind,  think 
on  these  things,  and  think  on 

ROBERT  BURN§\ 


No.  XCIV. 
TO  MR.  HILL. 

Ellisland,  2d  March,  1790. 

At  a  late  meeting  of  the  Monkland 
Friendly  Society,  it.  was  resolved  to  aug- 
ment their  library  by  the  following  books, 
which  you  are  to  send  us  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible : — The  Mirror,  The  Lounger,  Man 
of  Feeling,  Man  of  the  World,  (these,  for 
my  own  sake,  I  wish  to  have  by  the  first 
carrier,)  Knox's  History  of  the  Refor- 
mation; Rac's  History  of  the  Rebellion  in 
1715  ;  any  good  History  of  the  Rebellion 
in  1745;  a  Display  of  the  Secession  Act 
and  Testimony,  by  Mr.  Gibb ;  Hervey's 
Meditations ;  Beveridge's  Thoughts;  and 
another  copy  of  Watson's  Body  of  Divi- 
nity. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  A.  Masterton  three  or 
four  months  ago,  to  pay  some  money  he 
owed  me  into  your  hands,  and  lately  I 
wrote  to  you  to  the  same  purpose,  but  I 
have  heard  from  neither  one  nor  other  of 
you. 

In  addition  to  the  books  I  commission- 
ed in  my  last,T  want  very  much,  An  In- 
dex to  the  Excise  Laws,  or  an  Abridgment 
of  all  the  Statutes  noic  in  force  relative  to 
the  Excise,  by  Jellinger  Symons ;  I  want 
three  copies  of  this  book  :  if  it  is  now  to 
be  had,  cheap  or  dear,  get  it  for  me.  An 
honest  country  neighbour  of  mine  wants, 
too,  A  Family  Bible,  the  larger  the  bet- 
ter, but  second-handed,  for  he  does  not 


154 


LETTERS. 


choose  to  give  abovo  ten  shillings  for  the 
book.  I  want  likewise  for  myself  as  you 
can  pick  them  up,  second-handed  or  cheap, 
copies  of  Otwar/s  Dramatic  Works,  Ben 
Jonson's,  Dryden's,  Congreve's,  Wycher- 
ley  s,  Vanburgh's,  Gibber's,  or  any  Dra- 
matic Works  of  the  more  modern,  Mack- 
lin,  Garrick,  Footc,  Coleman,  or  Sheridan. 
A  good  copy  .too,  of  Molierc,  in  French, 
I  much  want.  Any  other  good  dramatic 
authors  in  that  language  I  want  also,  but 
comic  authors  chiefly,  though  I  should 
wish  to  have  Racine,  Corneille,  and  Vol- 
taire too.  I  am  in  no  hurry  for  all,  or  any 
of  these ;  but  if  you  accidentally  meet  with 
them  very  cheap,  get  them  for  me. 

And  now  to  quit  the  dry  walk  of  busi- 
ness, how  do  you  do,  my  dear  friend  ?  and 
how  is  Mrs.  Hill  ?  I  trust,  if  now  and  then 
not  so  elegantly  handsome,  at  least  as  ami- 
able, and  sings  as  divinely  as  ever.  My 
good  wife,  too,  has  a  charming  "  wood- 
note  wild ;"  now  could  we  four 


I  am  out  of  all  patience  with  this  vile 
world  for  one  thing.  Mankind  are  by  na- 
ture benevolent  creatures.  Except  in  a 
few  scoundrelly  instances,  I  do  not  think 
that  avarice  of  the  good  things  we  chance 
to  have,  is  born  with  us ;  but  we  are 
placed  here  amid  so  much  nakedness,  and 
hunger,  and  poverty,  and  want,  that  we 
are  under  a  cursed  necessity  of  studying 
selfishness,  in  order  that  we  may  exist  ! 
Still  there  are,  in  every  age,  a  few  souls, 
that  all  the  wants  and  woes  of  this  life 
cannot  debase  to  selfishness,  or  even  to 
the  necessary  alloy  of  caution  andpru-, 
dence.  If  ever  I  am  in  danger  of  vanity, 
it  is  when  I  contemplate  myself  on  this 
side  of  my  disposition  and  character.  God 
knows  I  am  no  saint ;  I  have  a  whole  host 
of  follies  and  sins  to  answer  for:  but  if  I 
could,  and  I  believe  I  do  it  as  far  as  I  can, 
I  would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all  eyes. 
Adieu ! 


No.  XCV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  ^0th  April,  1790. 

T  havf.  just  now,  my  ever-honoured 
fr'irnd,  enjoyed  a  very  high  luxury,  in 
reading  a  paper  of  the  Lotmger.     You 


know  my  national  prejudices.  I  had  of- 
ten read  and  admired  the  Spectator,  Ad- 
venturer, Rambler,  and  World;  but  still 
with  a  certain  regret,  that  they  were  so 
thoroughly  and  entirely  English.  Alas  ! 
have  I  often  said  to  myself,  what  are  all 
the  boasted  advantages  which  my  coun- 
try reaps  from  the  union,  that  can  coun- 
terbalance the  annihilation  of  her  inde- 
pendence, and  even  her  very  name  !  I  of- 
ten repeat  that  couplet  of  my  favourite 
poet,  Goldsmith — 

"  States  of  native  liberty  possess'd, 
Tho'  very  poor  may  yet  be  very  bless'd." 

Nothing  can  reconcile  me  to  the  com- 
mon terms  "  English  ambassador,  Eng- 
lish court,"  &c.  And  I  am  out  of  all  pa- 
tience to  see  that  equivocal  character, 
Hastings,  impeached  by  "the  Commons  ot 
England."  Tell  me,  my  friend,  is  this  weak 
prejudice?  Hbelieve  in  my  conscience  such 
ideas  as, "  my  country ;  her  independence ; 
her  honour;  the  illustrious  names  that 
mark  the  history  of  my  native  land  ;"  &c. 
I  believe  these,  among  your  men  of  the 
world,  men  who  in  fact  guide  for  the  most 
part  and  govern  our  world,  are  looked  on 
as  so  many  modifications  of  wronghead- 
edness.  They  know  the  use  of  bawling 
out  such  terms,  to  rouse  or  lead  the  rab- 
ble ;  but  for  their  own  private  use ;  with 
almost  all  the  able  statesmen  that  ever  ex- 
isted, or  now  exist,  when  they  talk  of  right 
and  wrong,  they  only  mean  proper  and 
improper,  and  their  measure  of  conduct 
is,  not  what  they  ought,  but  what  they 
dare.  For  the  truth  of  this  I  shall  not 
ransack  the  history  of  nations,  but  appeal 
to  one  of  the  ablest  judges  of  men,  and 
himself  one  of  the  ablest  men  that  ever 
lived — the  celebrated  Earl  of  Chester- 
field. In  fact,  a  man  who  could  thorough- 
ly control  his  vices  whenever  they  inter- 
fered with  his  interests,  and  who  could 
completely  put  on  the  appearance  of  every 
virtue  as  often  as  it  suited  his  purposes, 
is,  on  the  Stanhopian  plan,  the  perfect 
man ;  a  man  to  lead  nations.  But  are 
great  abilities,  complete  without  a  flaw, 
and  polished  without  a  blemish,  the  stand- 
ard of  human  excellence  ?  This  is  cer- 
tainly the  staunch  opinion  of  men  of  the 
world  ;  but  I  call  on  honour,  virtue,  and 
worth  to  give  the  stygian  doctrine  a  loud 
negative !  However,  this  must  be  allowed, 
that,  if  you  abstract  from  man  the  idea  of 
existence  beyond  the  grave,  then  the  true 
measure  of  human  conduct  is  proper  and 
improper:  Virtue  and  vice  as  dispositions 


LETTERS. 


155 


of  the  heart,  are,  in  that  case,  of  scarcely 
the  same  import  and  value  to  the  world 
at  large,  as  harmony  and  discord  in  the 
modifications  of  sound ;  and  a  delicate 
sense  of  honour,  like  a  nice  ear  for  music, 
though  it  may  sometimes  give  the  pos- 
sessor an  ecstacy  unknown  to  the  coarser 
organs  of  the  herd,  yet,  considering  the 
harsh  gratings  and  inharmonic  jars,  in 
this  ill-timed  state  of  heing,  it  is  odds  but 
the  individual  would  be  as  happy,  and  cer- 
tainly would  be  as  much  respected  by  the 
true  judges  of  society,  as  it  would  then 
stand,  without  either  a  good  ear  or  a  good 
heart. 

You  must  know  I  have  just  met  with 
the  Mirror  and  Lounger  for  the  first  time, 
and  I  am  quite  in  raptures  with  them ;  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  your  opinion  of 
some  of  the  papers.  The  one  I  have  just 
read  Lounger,  No.  61,  has  cost  me  more 
honest  tears  than  any  thing  I  have  read 
of  a  long  time.  M'Kenzie  has  been  call- 
ed the  Addison  of  the  Scots;  and,  in  my 
opinion,  Addison  would  not  be  hurt  at 
the  comparison.  If  he  has  not  Addison's 
exquisite  humour,  he  as  certainly  outdoes 
him  in  the  tender  and  pathetic.  His  Man 
of  Feeling,  (but  I  am  not  counsel-learned 
in  the  laws  of  criticism,)  I  estimate  as  the 
first  performance  in  its  kind  I  ever  saw. 
From  what  book,  moral,  or  even  pious, 
will  the  susceptible  young  mind  receive 
impressions  more  congenial  to  humanity 
and  kindness,  generosity  and  benevolence ; 
in  short,  more  of  all  that  ennobles  the 
soul  to  herself,  or  endears  her  to  others — 
than  from  the  simple,  affecting  tale  of 
poor  Harley  ? 

Still,  with  all  my  admiration  of  M'Ken- 
zie's  writings,  I  do  not  know  if  they  are 
the  fittest  reading  for  a  young  man  who 
is  about  to  set  out,  as  the  phrase  is,  to 
make  his  way  into  life.  Do  not  you  think, 
Madam,  that  among  the  few  favoured  of 
Heaven  in  the  structure  of  their  minds 
(for  such  there  certainly  are,)  there  may 
be  a  purity,  a  tenderness,  a  dignity,  an 
elegance  of  soul,  which  are  of  no  use,  nay, 
in  some  degree,  absolutely  disqualifying 
for  the  truly  important  business  of  mak- 
ing a  man's  way  into  life.  If  I  am  not 
much  mistaken,  my  gallant  young  friend, 
A*****  is  very  much  under  these  disquali- 
fications ;  and  for  the  young  females  of  a 
family  I  could  mention,  well  may  they 
excite  parental  solicitude ;  for  I,  a  com- 
mon acquaintance,  or,  as  my  vanity  will 
have  it,  an  humble  friend,  have  often  trem- 
Y  2 


bled  for  a  turn  of  mind  which  may  render 
them  eminently  happy — or  peculiarly  mi- 
serable ! 

I  have  been  manufacturing  some  verses 
lately  ;  but  as  I  have  got  the  most  hurried 
season  of  excise-business  over,  I  hope  to 
have  more  leisure  to  transcribe  any  thing 
that  may  show  how  much  I  have  the  ho- 
nour to  be,  Madam,  yours,  &c. 


No.  XCVI. 
FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh,  25th  May,  1789. 

MT    DEAR    BURNS, 

I  am  much  indebted  to  you  for  your 
last  friendly,  elegant  epistle,  and  it  shall 
make  a  part  of  the  vanity  of  my  com- 
position, to  retain  your  correspondence 
through  life.  It  was  remarkable  your  in- 
troducing the  name  of  Miss  Burnet,  at  a 
time  when  she  was  in  such  ill  health  :  and 
I  am  sure  it  will  grieve  your  gentle  heart, 
to  hear  of  her  being  in  the  last  stage  of  a 
consumption.  Alas  !  that  so  much  beauty, 
innocence,  and  virtue,  should  be  nipped 
in  the  bud.  Hers  was  the  smile  of  cheer- 
fulness— of  sensibility,  not  of  allurement ; 
and  her  elegance  of  manners  correspond- 
ed with  the  purity  and  elevation  of  her 
mind. 

How  does  your  friendly  muse  ?  I  am 
sure  she  still  retains  her  affection  for  you, 
and  that  you  have  many  of  her  favours  in 
your  possession,  which  I  have  not  seen. 
I  weary  much  to  hear  from  you. 


I  beseech  you  do  not  forget  me. 


I  most  sincerely  hope  all  your  concerns 
in  life  prosper,  and  that  your  roof-tree  en- 
joys the  blessing  of  good  health.  All 
your  friends  here  are  well,  among  whom, 
and  not  the  least,  is  your  acquaintance, 
Cleghorn.  As  for  myself,  I  am  well,  as 
far  as  *******  will  let  a  man  be,  but  with 
these  I  am  happy. 


When  you  meet  with  my  very  agreea- 


15G 


We  friend,   J.  Syme,  give  him  for  me  a 
hearty  squeeze,  and  bid  God  bless  him. 


LETTERS. 

or  a  character  sketched  with  uncommon 
precision. 


Is  there  any  probability  of  your  being 
eoon  in  Edinburgh? 


No.  XCVII. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 
Dumfries,  Excise-office,  \UhJuly,  1790. 

SIR, 

Coming  into  town  this  morning,  to 
attend  my  duty  in  this  office,  it  being  col- 
lection-day, I  met  with  a  gentleman  who 
tells  me  he  is  on  his  way  to  London ;  so 
I  take  the  opportunity  of  writing  to  you,  as 
franking  is  at  present  under  a  temporary 
death.  I  shall  have  some  snatches  of  lei- 
sure through  the  day,  amid  our  horrid  busi- 
ness and  bustle,  and  I  shall  improve  them 
as  well  as  I  can ;  but  let  my  letter  be  as 
stupid  as  *  *  *  *,  as 
miscellaneous  as  a  newspaper,  as  short  as 
a  hungry  grace-before-meat,  or  as  long 
as  a  law  paper  in  the  Douglass  cause ;  as 
ill-spelt  as  country  John's  billet-doux,  or 
as  unsightly  a  scrawl  as  Betty  Byre- 
Mucker's  answer  to  it — I  hope,  consider- 
ing circumstances,  you  will  forgive  it ; 
and,  as  it  will  put  you  to  no  expense  of 
postage,  I  shall  have  the  less  reflection 
about  it. 

I  am  sadly  ungrateful  in  not  returning 
you  thanks  for  your  most  valuable  present, 
Zeluco.  In  fact  you  are  in  some  degree 
blameable  for  my  neglect.  You  were 
pleased  to  express  a  wish  for  my  opinion 
of  the  work,  which  so  flattered  me,  that 
nothing  less  would  serve  my  overweening 
fancy,  than  a  formal  criticism  on  the  book. 
In  fact,  I  have  gravely  planned  a  compa- 
rative view  of  you,  Fielding,  Richardson, 
and  Smollet,  in  your  different  qualities 
and  merits  as  novel-writers.  This,  I  own, 
betrays  my  ridiculous  vanity,  and  I  may 
probably  never  bring  the  business  to  bear ; 
but  I  am  fond  of  the  spirit  young  Elihu 
shows  in  the  book  of  Job — "  And  I  said, 
I  will  also  declare  my  opinion."  I  have 
quite  disfigured  my  copy  of  the  book  with 
my  annotations.  I  never  take  it  up  with- 
out at  the  same  time  taking  my  pencil, 
and  marking  with  asterisms,  parentheses, 
&c.  wherever  I  meet  with  an  original 
thought,  a  nervous  remark  on  life  and 
manners,  a  remarkably  well  turned  period 


Though  I  shall  hardly  think  of  fairly 
writing  out  my  "  Comparative  View,"  I 
shall  certainly  trouble  you  with  my  re- 
marks, such  as  they  are. 

I  have  just  received  from  my  gentle- 
man, that  horrid  summons  in  the  book 
of  Revelation — "  That  time  shall  be  no 
more  !" 

The  little  collection  of  sonnets  have 
some  charming  poetry  in  them.  If  indt  t  d 
I  am  indebted  to  the  fair  author  for  the 
book,  and  not,  as  I  rather  suspect,  to  a 
celebrated  author  of  the  other  sex,  I 
should  certainly  have  written  to  the  lady, 
with  my  grateful  acknowledgments,  and 
my  own  ideas  of  the  comparative  excel- 
lence of  her  pieces.  I  would  do  this  last 
not  from  any  vanity  of  thinking  that  my 
remarks  could  be  of  much  consequence  to 
Mrs.  Smith,  but  merely  from  my  own 
feeling  as  an  author,  doing  as  I  would  be 
done  by. 


No.  XCVIII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Uh  Aug.  1790. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

After  a  long  day's  toil,  plague,  and 
care,  I  sit  down  to  write  to  you.  Ask  me 
not  why  I  have  delayed  it  so  long  ?  It  was 
owing  to  hurry,  indolence,  and  fifty  other 
things ;  in  short,  to  any  thing — but  for- 
getfulness  of  la  plus  amiable  de  son  sexe. 
By  the  by,  you  are  indebted  your  best 
courtesy  to  me  for  this  last  compliment, 
as  I  pay  it  from  my  sincere  conviction  of 
its  truth — a  quality  rather  rare  in  com- 
pliments of  these  grinning,  bowing,  scrap- 
ing times. 

Well,  I  hope  writing  to  you  will  ease  a 
little  my  troubled  soul.  Sorely  has  it 
been  bruised  to-day  !  A  ci-devant  friend 
of  mine,  and  an  intimate  acquaintance  of 
yours,  has  given  my  feelings  a  wound 
that  I  perceive  will  gangrene  danger- 
ously ere  it  cure.  He  has  wounded  my 
pride !  ■■ 


LETTERS. 


157 


No.  XCIX. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 
Ellislatul,  Hth  August,  1790. 

Forgive  me,  my  once  dear,  and  ever 
dear  friend,  my  seeming  negligence. 
You  cannot  sit  down  and  fancy  the  busy 
life  I  lead. 

I  laid  down  my  goose  feather  to  beat 
my  brains  for  an  apt  simile,  and  had  some 
thoughts  of  a  country  grannum  at  a  fa- 
mily christening ;  a  bride  on  the  mar- 
ket day  before  her  marriage  !         *        * 

*  ******* 

*  *  *  a  tavern-keeper  at  an 
election  dinner ;  &c.  &c. — but  the  re- 
semblance that  hits  my  fancy  best,  is  that 
blackguard  miscreant,  Satan,  who  roams 
about  like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking,  search- 
ing whom  he  may  devour.  However, 
tossed  about  as  I  am,  if  I  choose  (and  who 
would  not  choose)  to  bind  down  with 
the  crampets  of  attention  the  brazen  foun- 
dation of  integrity.  I  may  rear  up  the 
superstructure  of  Independence,  and,  from 
its  daring  turrets,  bid  defiance  to  the 
storms  of  fate.  And  is  not  this  a  "  con- 
summation devoutly  to  be  wished?" 

"Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share; 

Lord  of  the  lion-heart,  and  eagle-eye! 
Thy  steps  I  follow  with  my  bosom  bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky ! 

Are  not  these  noble  verses  ?  They  are 
the  introduction  of  Smollefs  Ode  to  Inde- 
pendence :  if  you  have  not  seen  the  poem, 
I  will  send  it  to  you.  How  wretched  is 
the  man  that  hangs  on  by  the  favours  of 
the  great.  To  shrink  from  every  dignity 
of  man,  at  the  approach  of  a  lordly  piece 
of  self-consequence,  who  amid  all  his  tin- 
sel glitter  and  stately  hauteur  is  but  a 
creature,  formed  as  thou  art — and  per- 
haps not  so  well  formed  as  thou  art — came 
into  the  world  a  puling  infant  as  thou  didst, 
and  must  go  out  of  it  as  all  men  must,  a 
naked  corse.* 


*  The  preceding  letter  explains  the  feelings  under 
which  this  was  written.  The  strain  of  indignant  in- 
vective goes  on  some  time  longer  in  the  style  which  our 
Bard  was  too  apt  to  indulge,  and  of  which  the  reader 
has  already  seen  so  much.     E. 


No.  C. 

FROM  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh,  \-i  September,  1790. 
How  does  my  dear  friend,  much  I  languish 

to  hear, 
His  fortune,  relations,  and  all  that  are  dear! 
With  love  of  the  Muses  so  strongly  still 

smitten, 
I  meant  this  epistle  in  verse  to  have  writ- 
ten, 
But  from  age  and  infirmity  indolence  flows, 
And  this,  much  I  fear  will  restore  me  to 

prose. 
Anon  to  my  business  I  wish  to  proceed, 
Dr.  Anderson  guides  and  provokes  me  to 

speed, 
A  man  of  integrity,  genius,  and  worth, 
Who  soon  a  performance  intends  to  set 

forth : 
A  work  miscellaneous,  extensive,  and  free, 
Which  will  weekly  appear  by  the  name 

of  the  Bee, 
Of  this  from  himself  I  enclose  you  a  plan, 
And  hope  you  will  give  what  assistance 

you  can. 
Entangled  with  business,  and   haunted 

with  care, 
In  which  more  or  less  human  nature  must 

share, 
Some  moments  of  leisure  the  Muses  will 

claim, 
A  sacrifice  due  to  amusement  and  fame. 
The  Bee,  which  sucks  honey  from  every 

gay  bloom, 
With  some  rays  of  your  genius  her  work 

may  illume, 
Whilst  the  flower  whence  her  honey  spon- 
taneously flows, 
As  fragrantly  smells,  and  as  vig'rously 

grows. 

Now  with  kind  gratulations  'tis  time  to 
conclude, 

And  add,  your  promotion  is  here  under- 
stood ; 

Thus  free  from  the  servile  employ  of  ex- 
cise, Sir, 

We  hope  soon  to  hear  you  commence  Su- 
pervisor ; 

You  then  more  at  leisure,  and  free  from 
control, 

May  indulge  the  strong  passion  that  reigns 
in  your  soul ; 

But  I,  feeble  I,  must  to  nature  give  way, 

Devoted  cold  death's,  and  longevity's  prey. 

From  verses  though  languid  my  thoughts 
must  unbend, 

Though  still  I  remain  your  affectionate 
friend, 

TIIO.  BLACKLOCK. 


153 


LETTERS. 


No.  CI. 


EXTRACT  OF  A  LETTER 

FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 
Edinburgh,  14th  October,  1790. 

I  lately  received  a  letter  from  our 
friend  B*********, — what  a  charming  fel- 
low lost  to  society — born  to  great  expec- 
tations— with  superior  abilities,  a  pure 
heart,  and  untainted  morals,  his  fate  in 
life  has  been  hard  indeed — still  I  am  per- 
suaded he  is  happy:  not  like  the  gallant, 
the  gay  Lothario,  but  in  the  simplicity  of 
rural  enjoyment,  unmixed  with  regret  at 
the  remembrance  of  "  the  days  of  other 
years,"* 

I  saw  Mr.  Dunbar  put  under  the  cover 
of  your  newspaper  Mr.  Wood's  poem  on 
Thomson.  This  poem  has  suggested  an 
idea  to  me  which  you  alone  are  capable 
to  execute — a  song  adapted  to  each  season 
of  the  year.  The  task  is  difficult,  but  the 
theme  is  charming :  should  you  succeed, 
I  will  undertake  to  get  new  music  worthy 
of  the  subject.  What  a  fine  field  for 
your  imagination !  and  who  is  there  alive 
can  draw  so  many  beauties  from  Nature 
and  pastoral  imagery  as  yourself  ?  It  is, 
by  the  way,  surprising,  that  there  does 
not  exist,  so  far  as  I  know,  a  proper  song 
for  each  season.  We  have  songs  on  hunt- 
ing, fishing,  skating,  and  one  autumnal 
eong,  Harvest  Home.  As  your  Muse  is 
neither  spavined  nor  rusty,  you  may  mount 
the  hill  of  Parnassug,  and  return  with  a 
sonnet  in  your  pocket  for  every  season. 
For  my  suggestions,  if  I  be  rude,  correct 
me ;  if  impertinent,  chastise  me  ;  if  pre- 
suming, despise  me.  But  if  you  blend  all 
my  weaknesses,  and  pound  out  one  grain 
of  insincerity,  then  I  am  not  thy 

Faithful  Friend,  &c. 


No.  CII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

November,  1790. 

"  As  cold  waters  to  a  thirsty  soul,  so  is 
pood  news  from  a  far  country." 

•  The  person  here  alluded  to  is  Mr.  S.  who  engaged 
the  Editor  in  this  undertaking.  Bee  the  Dedication.  E. 


Fate  has  long  owed  me  a  letter  of  good 
news  from  you,  in  return  for  the  many 
tidings  of  sorrow  which  I  have  received. 
In  this  instance  I  most  cordially  obey  the 
apostle — "Rejoice  with  them  that  do  re- 
joice,"— for  me  to  sing  for  joy,  is  no  new 
thing;  but  to  preach  for  joy,  as  I  have 
done  in  the  commencement  of  this  epis- 
tle, is  a  pitch  of  extravagant  rapture  to 
which  I  never  rose  before. 


I  read  your  letter — I  literally  jumped 
for  joy — How  could  such  a  mercurial 
creature  as  a  poet  lumpishly  keep  his  seat 
on  the  receipt  of  the  best  news  from  his 
best  friend  ?  I  seized  my  gilt-headed 
Wangee  rod  an  instrument  indispensably 
necessary  in  my  left  hand,  in  the  moment 
of  inspiration  and  rapture  ;  and  stride, 
stride — quick  and  quicker — out  skipped 
I  among  the  broomy  banks  of  Nith,  to 
muse  over  my  joy  by  retail.  To  keep 
within  the  bounds  of  prose  was  impossi- 
ble. Mrs.  Little's  is  a  more  elegant,  but 
not  a  more  sincere  compliment,  to  the 
sweet  little  fellow,  than  I,  extempore,  al- 
most, poured  out  to  him  in  the  follow  inn; 
verses.  See  Poems,  p.  74 — On  the  Birth 
of  a  Posthumous  Child. 


I  am  much  flattered  by  your  approba- 
tion of  my  Tarn  o'Shanier,  which  you  ex- 
press in  your  former  letter ;  though,  by 
the  by,  you  load  me  in  that  said  letter 
with  accusations  heavy  and  many ;  to  all 
which  I  plead  not  guilty  !  Your  book  is, 
I  hear,  on  the  road  to  reach  me.  As  to 
printing  of  poetry,  when  you  prepare  it 
for  the  press,  you  have  only  to  spell  it 
right,  and  place  the  capital  letters  pro- 
perly :  as  to  the  punctuation,  the  printers 
do  that  themselves. 


I  have  a  copy  of  Tarn  o^Shanter  ready 
to  send  you  by  the  first  opportunity :  it  is 
too  heavy  to  send  by  post. 


I  heard  of  Mr.  Corbet  lately.  He,  in 
consequence  of  your  recommendation,  is 
most  zealous  to  serve  me.  Please  favour 
me  soon  with  an  account  of  your  good 
folks;  if  Mrs.  II.  is  recovering,  and  the 
young  gentleman  doing  well. 


LETTERS. 


159 


No.  CIII. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  23d  January,  1791. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to 
you,  my  dear  friend !  As  many  of  the 
good  things  of  this  life  as  is  consistent 
with  the  usual  mixture  of  good  and  evil 
in  the  cup  of  being  ! 

I  have  just  finished  a  poem,  which  you 
will  receive  enclosed.  It  is  my  first  es- 
say in  the  way  of  tales. 

I  have  for  these  several  months  been 
hammering  at  an  elegy  on  the  amiable 
and  accomplished  Miss  Burnet.  1  have 
got,  and  can  get  no  farther  than  the  fol- 
lowing fragment,  on  which  please  give 
me  your  strictures.  In  all  kinds  of  poetic 
composition  I  set  great  store  by  your  opi- 
nion :  but  in  sentimental  verses,  in  the 
poetry  of  the  heart,  no  Roman  Catholic 
ever  set  more  value  on  the  infallibility  of 
the  Holy  Father  than  I  do  on  yours. 

I  mean  the  introductory  couplets  as 
text  verses.* 


Let  mo  hear  from  you  soon.     Adieu ! 


No.  CIV. 
TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

11th  January,  1791. 

Take  these  two  guineas,  and  place 
them  over  against  that  ******  account  of 
yours !  which  has  gagged  my  mouth  these 
five  or  six  months !  I  can  as  little  write 
good  things  as  apologies  to  the  man  I  owe 
money  to.  O  the  supreme  curse  of  ma- 
king three  guineas  do  the  business  of  five  ! 
Not  all  the  labours  of  Hercules ;  not  all 
the  Hebrews'  three  centuries  of  Egyptian 
bondage  were  such  an  insuperable  busi- 
ness, such  an  ********  task !  Poverty  ! 
thou  half-sister  of  death,  thou  cousin-ger- 

•  Immediately  after  this  were  copied  the   first  six 
stanzas  of  the  Elegy  given  in  p.  Si,  of  the  Foems. 


man  of  hell !  where  shall  I  find  force  of 
execration  equal  to  the  amplitude  of  thy 
demerits  ?     Oppressed  by  thee,  the  vene- 
rable ancient,  grown  hoary  in  the  prac- 
tice of  every  virtue,  laden  with  years  and 
wretchedness,  implores  a  little — little  aid 
to  support   his   existence  from  a  stony- 
hearted son  of  Mammon,  whose  sun  of 
prosperity  never  knew  a  cloud ;  and  is  by 
him  denied  and  insulted.     Oppressed  by 
thee,  the  man  of  sentiment,  whose  heart 
glows  with  independence,  and  melts  with 
sensibility,  inly  pines  under  the  neglect, 
or  writhes  in  bitterness  of  soul  under  the 
contumely  of  arrogant,  unfeeling  wealth. 
Oppressed  by  thee,   the  son  of  genius, 
whose  ill-starred  ambition  plants  him  at 
the  tables  of  the  fashionable  and  polite, 
must  see  in  suffering  silence  his  remark 
neglected,  and  his  person  despised,  while 
shallow  greatness,  in  his  idiot  attempts  at 
wit,  shall  meet  with  countenance  and  ap- 
plause.    Nor  is  it  only  the  family  of  worth 
that  have  reason  to  complain  of  thee,  the 
children  of  folly  and  vice,  though  in  com- 
mon with  thee  the  offspring  of  evil,  smart 
equally  under  thy  rod.     Owing  to  thee, 
the  man  of  unfortunate  disposition  and 
neglected  education,  is  condemned  as  a 
fool  for  his  dissipation,  despised  and  shun- 
ned as  a  needy  wretch,  when  his  follies, 
as  usual,  bring  him  to  want ;  and  when 
his  unprincipled  necessities  drive  him  to 
dishonest  practices,  he  is  abhorred  as  a 
miscreant,  and  perishes  by  the  justice  of 
his  country.     But  far  otherwise  is  the  lot 
of  the  man  of  family  and  fortune.     His 
early  follies  and  extravagance  are  spirit 
and  fire ;  his  consequent  wants  are  the 
embarrassments  of  an  honest  fellow ;  and 
when,  to  remedy  the  matter,  he  has  gain 
ed  a  legal  commission  to  plunder  distant 
provinces,  or  massacre  peaceful  nations, 
he  returns,  perhaps,  laden  with  the  spoils 
of  rapine  and  murder ;  lives  wicked  and 
respected,  and  dies  a  ******  and  a  lord. 
Nay,  worst  of  all,  alas,  for  helpless  wo- 
man !  the  needy  prostitute,  who  has  shi- 
vered at  the  corner  of  the  street,  waiting 
to  earn  the  wages  of  casual  prostitution,  is 
left  neglected  and  insulted,  ridden  down  by 
the  chariot-wheels  of  the  coroneted  Rip, 
hurrying  on  to  the  guilty  assignation  ;  she 
who  without  the  same  necessities  to  plead, 
riots  nightly  in  the  same  guilty  trade. 

Well !  Divines  may  say  of  it  what  they 
please,  but  execration  is  to  the  mind  what 
phlebotomy  is  to  the  body;  the  vital  sluices 
of  both  are  wonderfully  relieved  by  their 
respective  evacuations. 


160 


LETTERS. 


No.  CV. 


FROM  A.  F.  TYTLER,  ESQ. 
Edinburgh,  12th  March,  1791. 


DEAIt  SIR, 

Mr.  Hilt,  yesterday  put  into  my 
hands  a  sheet  of  Grose's  Antiquities,  con- 
taining a  poem  of  yours  entitled,  Tarn 
o'S/utnter,  a  tale.  The  very  high  plea- 
sure I  have  received  from  the  perusal  of 
tliis  admirable  piece,  I  feel,  demands  the 
warmest  acknowledgments.  Hill  tells  me 
he  is  to  send  off  a  packet  for  you  this  day ; 
I  cannot  resist,  therefore,  putting  on  pa- 
per what  I  must  have  told  you  in  person, 
had  I  met  with  you  after  the  recent  peru- 
sal of  your  tale,  which  is,  that  I  feel  I  owe 
you  a  debt,  which,  if  undischarged,  would 
reproach  me  with  ingratitude.  I  have 
seldom  in  my  life  tasted  of  higher  enjoy- 
ment from  any  work  of  genius,  than  I 
have  received  from  this  composition :  and 
I  am  much  mistaken,  if  this  poem  alone, 
had  you  never  written  another  syllable, 
would  not  have  been  sufficient  to  have 
transmitted  your  name  down  to  posterity 
with  high  reputation.  In  the  introducto- 
ry part,  where  you  paint  the  character  of 
your  hero,  and  exhibit  him  at  the  ale- 
bouse  ingle,  with  his  tippling  cronies,  you 
have  delineated  nature  with  a  humour  and 
naivete  that  would  do  honour  to  Matthew 
Prior ;  but  when  you  describe  the  infer- 
nal orgies  of  the  witches'  sabbath,  and 
the  hellish  scenery  in  which  they  are  ex- 
hibited, you  display  a  power  of  imagina- 
tion that  Shakspeare  himself  could  not 
have  exceeded.  I  know  not  that  I  have 
ever  met  with  a  picture  of  more  horrible 
fancy  than  the  following : 

"  Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  tb°ir  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight, 
Each  in  his  cauld  hand  held  a  light." 

But  when  I  came  to  the  succeeding  lines, 
my  blood  ran  cold  within  me : 

"  A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  of  life  bereft ; 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft.11 

And  here,  after  the  two  following  lines, 
"  Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu',"  &c.  the 
descriptive  part  miglit,  perhaps  have  been 
better  closed,  than  t lie  four  lines  which 
euccecd,   which,  though  good  in   them- 


selves, yet  as  they  derive  all  their  merit 
from  the  satire  they  contain,  are  here  ra- 
ther misplaced  among  the  circumstances 
of  pure  horror.*  The  initiation  of  the 
young  witch,  is  most  happily  described — 
the  effect  of  her  charms  exhibited  in  the 
dance  on  Satan  himself— the  apostrophe, 
"Ah!  little  thought  thy  reverend  grau- 
nie!"— the  transport  of  Tom,  who  for- 
gets his  situation,  and  enters  completely 
into  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  are  all  fea- 
tures of  high  merit  in  this  excellent  com- 
position. The  only  fault  that  it  possess- 
es, is,  that  the  winding  up,  or  conclusion 
of  the  story,  is  not  commensurate  to  the 
interest  which  is  excited  by  the  descrip- 
tive and  characteristic  painting  of  the 
preceding  parts.  The  preparation  is  fine, 
but  the  result  is  not  adequate.  But  for 
this,  perhaps,  you  have  a  good  apology — 
you  stick  to  the  popular  tale. 

And  now  that  I  have  got  out  my  mind, 
and  feel  a  little  relieved  of  the  weight  of 
that  debt  I  owed  you,  let  me  end  this  de- 
sultory scroll,  by  an  advice:  you  have 
proved  your  talent  for  a  species  of  com- 
position in  which  but  a  very  few  of  our 
own  poets  have  succeeded — Go  on — write 
more  tales  in  the  same  style — you  will 
eclipse  Prior  and  La  Fontaine ;  for  with 
equal  wit,  equal  power  of  numbers,  and 
equal  naivete  of  expression,  you  have  a 
bolder,  and  more  vigorous  imagination. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  much  esteem, 

Yours,  &c. 


No.  CVI. 


TO  A.  F.  TYTLER,  ESQ. 


Nothing  loss  than  the  unfortunate 
accident  I  have  met  with  could  have  pre- 
vented my  grateful  acknowledgments  for 
your  letter.  His  own  favourite  poem, 
and  that  an  essay  in  a  walk  of  the  muses 
entirely  new  to  him,  where  consequently 
his  hopes  and  fears  were  on  the  most 
anxious  alarm  for  his  success  in  the  at- 
tempt :  to  have  that  poem  so  much  ap- 
plauded by  one  of  the  first  judges,  was 
the  most   delicious   vibration  that   ever 


*  Our  Bard  profited  by  Mr.  Tytler's  criticisms,  and 
expunged  the  four  lines  accordingly. 


LETTERS. 


161 


trilled  along  the  heart-strings  of  a  poor 
poet.  However,  Providence,  to  keep  up 
the  proper  proportion  of  evil  with  the 
good,  which  it  seems  is  necessary  in  this 
sublunary  state,  thought  proper  to  check 
my  exultation  by  a  very  serious  misfor- 
tune. A  day  or  two  after  I  received  your 
letter,  my  horse  came  down  with  me  and 
broke  my  right  arm.  As  this  is  the  first 
service  my  arm  has  done  me  since  its  dis- 
aster, I  find  myself  unable  to  do  more  than 
just  in  general  terms  to  thank  you  for  this 
additional  instance  of  your  patronage  and 
friendship.  As  to  the  faults  you  detected 
in  the  piece,  they  are  truly  there :  one  of 
them,  the  hit  at  the  lawyer  and  priest,  I 
shall  cut  out:  as  to  the  falling  off  in  the 
catastrophe,  for  the  reason  you  justly  ad- 
duce, it  cannot  easily  be  remedied.  Your 
approbation,  Sir,  has  given  me  such  ad- 
ditional spirits  to  persevere  in  this  species 
of  poetic  composition,  that  I  am  already 
revolving  two  or  three  stories  in  my  fan- 
cy. If  1  can  bring  these  floating  ideas  to 
bear  any  kind  of  embodied  form,  it  will 
give  me  an  additional  opportunity  of  as- 
suring you  how  much  I  have  the  honour 
to  be,  &c 


No.  CVII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  1th  February,  1791. 

When  I  tell  you,  Madam,  that  by  a 
fall,  not  from  my  horse,  but  with  my 
horse,  I  have  been  a  cripple  some  time, 
and  that  this  is  the  first  day  my  arm  and 
hand  have  been  able  to  serve  me  in  wri- 
ting, you  will  allow  that  it  is  too  good  an 
apology  for  my  seemingly  ungrateful  si- 
lence. I  am  now  getting  better,  and  am 
able  to  rhyme  a  little,  which  implies  some 
tolerable  ease ;  as  I  cannot  think  that  the 
most  poetic  genius  is  able  to  compose  on 
the  rack. 

I  do  not  remember  if  ever  I  mentioned 
to  you  my  having  an  idea  of  composing  an 
elegy  on  the  late  Miss  Burnet  of  Mon- 
boddo.  I  had  the  honour  of  being  pretty 
well  acquainted  with  her,  and  have  sel- 
dom felt  so  much  at  the  loss  of  an  ac- 
quaintance, as  when  I  heard  that  so  ami- 
able and  accomplished  a  piece  of  God's 
works  was  no  more.  I  have  as  yet  gone 
no  farther  than  the  following  fragment, 
of  which  please  let  me  have  your  opinion. 
You  know  that  elegy  is  a  subject  so  much 


exhausted,  that  any  new  idea  on  the  busi- 
ness is  not  to  be  expected ;  'tis  well  if  we 
can  place  an  old  idea  in  a  new  light.  How 
far  1  have  succeeded  as  to  this  last,  you 
will  judge  from  what  follows  i — 

[Here  followed  the  Elegy,  as  given  in  the 
Poems,  p.  82,  with  this  additional  verse:) 

The  parent's  heart  that  nestled  fond  in  thee, 
That  heart  how  mink,  a  prey  to  grief  and  care  : 

So  deck'd  the  woodbine  sweet  yon  aged  tree, 
So  from  it  ravish'd,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bare. 


I  have  proceeded  no  further. 

Your  kind  letter,  with  your  kind  remem- 
brance of  your  godson,  came  safe.  This 
last,  Madam,  is  scarcely  what  my  pride 
can  bear.  As  to  the  little  fellow,  he  is, 
partiality  apart,  the  finest  boy  I  have  of  a 
long  time  6een.  He  is  now  seventeen 
months  old,  has  the  small-pox  and  measles 
over,  has  cut  several  teeth,  and  yet  never 
had  a  grain  of  doctor's  drugs  in  his  bow- 
els. 

I  am  truly  happy  to  hear  that  the  "  lit- 
tle floweret"  is  blooming  so  fresh  and  fair, 
and  that  the  "mother  plant"  is  rather  re- 
covering her  drooping  head.  Soon  and 
well  may  her  "  cruel  wounds"  be  healed  ! 
I  have  written  thus  far  with  a  good  deal 
of  difficulty.  When  I  get  a  little  abler, 
you  shall  hear  farther  from, 

Madam,  yours,  &c. 


No.  CVIII. 
TO  LADY  W.  M.  CONSTABLE, 

Acknowledging  a  present  of  a  valuable 
Snuff-box,  with  a  fine  picture  of  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  on  the  Lid. 

MY  LADY, 

Nothing  less  than  the  unlucky  ac- 
cident of  having  lately  broken  my  right 
arm,  could  have  prevented  me,  the  mo- 
ment I  received  your  Ladyship's  elegant 
present  by  Mrs.  Miller,  from  returning 
you  my  warmest  and  most  grateful  ac- 
knowledgments. I  assure  your  Ladyship 
I  shall  set  it  apart ;  the  symbols  of  religion 
shall  only  be  more  sacred.  In  the  mo- 
ment of  poetic  composition,  the  box  shall 
be  my  inspiring  genius.  When  I  would 
breathe  tho  comprehensive  wish  of  bene- 


1G2 


LETTERS. 


volencc  for  the  happiness  of  others,  I  shall 
recollect  your  Ladyship :  when  I  would 
interest  my  fancy  in  the  distresses  inci- 
dent to  humanity,  I  shall  remember  the 
unfortunate  Mary. 


No.  CIX. 
TO  MRS.  GRAHAM, 


OF  FINTRY. 


MADAM, 


Whether  it  is  that  the  story  of  our 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  has  a  peculiar  ef- 
fect on  the  feelings  of  a  poet,  or  whether 
I  have  in  the  enclosed  ballad  succeeded 
beyond  my  usual  poetic  success,  I  know 
not ;  but  it  has  pleased  me  beyond  any 
effort  of  my  muse  for  a  good  while  past ; 
on  that  account  I  enclose  it  particularly 
to  you.  It  is  true,  the  purity  of  my  mo- 
tives may  be  suspected.     I  am  already 

deeply  indebted  to  Mr.  G 's  goodness ; 

and  what,  in  the  usual  ways  of  men,  is  of 
infinitely  greater  importance,  Mr.  G.  can 
do  me  service  of  the  utmost  importance 
in  time  to  come.  I  was  born  a  poor  dog ; 
and  however  1  may  occasionally  pick  a 
better  bone  than  I  used  to  do,  I  know  I 
must  live  and  die  poor ;  but  I  will  indulge 
the  flattering  faith  that  my  poetry  will 
considerably  outlive  my  poverty  ;  and, 
without-  any  fustian  affectation  of  spirit, 
I  can  promise  and  affirm,  that  it  must  be 
no  ordinary  craving  of  the  latter  shall 
ever  make  me  do  any  thing  injurious  to 
the  honest  fame  of  the  former.  What- 
ever may  be  my  failings,  for  failings  are  a 
part  of  human  nature,  may  they  ever  be 
those  of  a  generous  heart  and  an  inde- 
pendent mind !  It  is  no  fault  of  mine  that 
I  was  born  to  dependence ;  nor  is  it  Mr. 
G 's  chiefest  praise  that  he  can  com- 
mand influence ;  but  it  is  his  merit  to  be- 
stow, not  only  with  the  kindness  of  a  bro- 
ther, but  with  the  politeness  of  a  gentle- 
man ;  and  I  trust  it  shall  be  mine  to  re- 
ceive with  thankfulness,  and  remember 
with  undiminished  gratitude. 


No.  CX. 
FROM  THE  REV.  G.  BAIRD. 
London,  8th  February,  1791. 

SIR, 

I  trouble  you  with  this  letter  to  in- 
form you  that  I  am  in  hopes  of  being  able 


very  soon  to  bring  to  the  press,  a  new 
edition  (long  since  talked  of)  of  Michael 
Bruce's  Poems.  The  profits  of  the  edition 
are  to  go  to  his  mother — a  woman  of  eigh- 
ty years  of  age — poor  and  helpless.  The 
poems  are  to  be  published  by  subscription ; 
and  it  may  be  possible,  I  think,  to  make 
out  a  2s.  6d.  or  3s.  volume,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  a  few  hitherto  unpublished 
verses,  which  I  have  got  from  the  mother 
of  the  poet. 

But  the  design  I  have  in  view  in  wri- 
ting to  you,  is  nofr  merely  to  inform  you 
of  these  facts,  it  is  to  solicit  the  aid  of  your 
name  and  pen,  in  support  of  the  scheme. 
The  reputation  of  Bruce  is  already  high 
with  every  reader  of  classical  taste,  and 
I  shall  be  anxious  to  guard  against  tar- 
nishing his  character,  by  allowing  any 
new  poems  to  appear  that  may  lower  it. 
For  this  purpose  the  MSS.  I  am  in  pos- 
session of,  have  been  submitted  to  the  re- 
vision of  some  whose  critical  talents  I  can 
trust  to,  and  I  mean  still  to  submit  them 
to  others. 

May  I  beg  to  know,  therefore,  if  you 
will  take  the  trouble  of  perusing  the  MSS. 
— of  giving  your  opinion,  and  suggesting 
what  curtailments,  alterations,  or  amend- 
ments, occur  to  you  as  advisable  ?  And 
will  you  allow  us  to  let  it  be  known,  that 
a  few  lines  by  you  will  be  added  to  the 
volume  ? 

I  know  the  extent  of  this  request.  It 
is  bold  to  make  it.  But  I  have  this  con- 
solation, that  though  you  see  it  proper  to 
refuse  it,  you  will  not  blame  me  for  hav- 
ing made  it ;  you  will  see  my  apology  in 
the  motive. 

May  I  just  add,  that  Michael  Bruce  ia 
one  in  whose  company,  from  his  past  ap- 
pearance, you  would  not,  I  am  convinced, 
blush  to  be  found ;  and  as  I  would  submit 
every  line  of  his  that  should  now  be  pub- 
lished, to  your  own  criticisms,  you  would 
be  assured  that  nothing  derogatory,  either 
to  him  or  you,  would  be  admitted  in  that 
appearance  he  may  make  in  future. 

You  have  already  paid  an  honourable 
tribute  to  kindred  genius,  in  Fergusson  ; 
I  fondly  hope  that  the  mother  of  Bruce 
will  experience  your  patronage. 

I  wish  to  have  the  subscription-papers 
circulated  by  the  14th  of  March,  Bruce's 
birthday,  which  I  understand  some  friends 
in  Scotland  talk  this  year  of  observing — 


at  that  time  it  will  be  resolved,  T  imagine, 
to  place  a  plain  humble  stone,  over  his 
grave.  This  at  least  I  trust  you  will 
agree  to  do — to  furnish,  in  a  few  couplets, 
an  inscription  for  it. 

On  these  points  may  I  solicit  an  answer 
as  early  as  possible  ?  a  short  delay  might 
disappoint  us  in  procuring  that  relief  to 
the  mother,  which  is  the  object  of  the 
whole. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  address  for  me 
under  cover  to  the  Duke  of  Athole,  Lon- 
don. 


LETTERS.  lo3 

pose  of  clearing  a  little  the  vista  of  retro- 
spection. 


P.  S.  Have  you  ever  seen  an  engrav- 
ing published  here  some  time  ago,  from 
one  of  your  poems,  "  O  thou  pale  Orb;" 
If  you  have  not,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  sending  it  to  you. 


No.  CXI. 
TO  THE  REV.  G.  BAIRD. 

In  answer  to  the  foregoing. 

Why  did  you,  my  dear  Sir,  write  to 
me  in  such  a  hesitating  style,  on  the  busi- 
ness of  poor  Bruce  ?  Don't  I  know,  and 
have  I  not  felt  the  many  ills,  the  peculiar 
ills,  that  poetic  flesh  is  heir  to  ?  You  shall 
have  your  choice  of  all  the  unpublished 
poems  I  have ;  and  had  your  letter  had 
my  direction  so  a3  to  have  reached  me 
Booner  (it  only  came  to  my  hand  this  mo- 
ment) I  should  have  directly  put  you  out 
of  suspense  on  the  subject.  I  only  ask 
that  some  prefatory  advertisement  in  the 
book,  as  well  as  the  subscription-bills  may 
bear,  that  the  publication  is  solely  for  the 
benefit  of  Bruce's  mother.  I  would  not 
put  it  in  the  power  of  ignorance  to  sur- 
mise, or  malice  to  insinuate,  that  I  clubbed 
a  share  in  the  work  for  mercenary  motives. 
Nor  need  you  give  me  credit  for  any  re- 
markable generosity  in  my  part  of  the 
business.  I  have  such  a  host  of  pecca- 
dilloes, failings,  follies,  and  backslidings 
(any  body  but  myself  might  perhaps  give 
some  of  them  a  worse  appellation,)  that 
by  way  of  some  balance,  however  trifling, 
m  the  account,  T  am  fain  to  do  any  good 
that  occurs  in  my  very  limited  power  to  a 
fcllow-crcature,  just  for  the  selfish  pur- 


No.  CXII. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  28th  February,  1791. 

I  do  not  know,  Sir,  whether  you  are 
a  subscriber  to  Grose's  Antiquities  of  Scot- 
land. If  you  are,  the  enclosed  poem  will 
not  be  altogether  new  to  you.  Captain 
Grose  did  me  the  favour  to  send  me  a 
dozen  copies  of  the  proof-sheet,  of  which 
this  is  one.  Should  you  have  read  the 
piece  before,  still  this  will  answer  the 
principal  end  I  have  in  view !  it  will  give 
me  another  opportunity  of  thanking  you 
for  all  your  goodness  to  the  rustic  bard; 
and  also  of  showing  you,  that  the  abilities 
you  have  been  pleased  to  commend  and 
patronize,  are  still  employed  in  the  way 
you  wish. 

The  Elegy  on  Captain  Henderson  is  a 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  man  I  loved 
much.  Poets  have  in  this  the  same  ad- 
vantage as  Roman  Catholics;  they  can 
be  of  service  to  their  friends  after  they 
have  past  that  bourn  where  all  other  kind- 
ness ceases  to  be  of  any  avail.  Whe- 
ther, after  all,  either  the  one  or  the  other 
be  of  any  real  service  to  the  dead,  is,  I 
fear,  very  problematical :  but  I  am  sure 
they  are  highly  gratifying  to  the  living  : 
and,  as  a  very  orthodox  text,  I  forget 
where  in  Scripture,  says,  "  whatsoever  is 
not  of  faith  is  sin  ;"  so  say  I,  whatsoever 
is  not  detrimental  to  society,  and  is  of 
positive  enjoyment,  is  of  God,  the  giver 
of  all  good  things,  and  ought  to  be  receiv- 
ed and  enjoyed  by  his  creatures  with 
thankful  delight.  As  almost  all  my  re- 
ligious tenets  originate  from  my  heart,  I 
am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  idea, 
that  I  can  still  keep  up  a  tender  inter- 
course with  the  dearly  beloved  friend,  or 
still  more  dearly  beloved  mistress,  who  is 
gone  to  the  world  of  spirits. 

The  ballad  on  Queen  Mary  was  begun 
while  I  was  busy  with  J'ercy's  Relinxics 
of  English  Poetry.  By  the  way,  how 
much  is  every  honest  heart,  which  has  a 
tincture  of  Caledonian  prejudice,  obliged 
to  you  for  your  glorious  story  of  Bucha- 
nan and    Targe  !   'Twaa  an   unequivocal 


164 


LETTERS. 


proof  of  your  loyal  gallantry  of  soul,  giv- 
ing Targe  the  victory.  I  should  have  been 
mortified  to  the  ground  if  you  had  not. 


I  have  just  read  over,  once  more  of 
many  times,  your  Zeluco.  I  marked  with 
my  pencil,  as  I  went  along,  every  passage 
that  pleased  me  particularly  above  the 
rest ;  and  one,  or  two  I  think,  which  with 
humble  deference,  I  am  disposed  to  think 
unequal  to  the  merits  of  the  book.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  to  transcribe  these 
marked  passages,  or  at  least  so  much  of 
them  as  to  point  where  they  are,  and  send 
them  to  you.  Original  strokes  that 
strongly  depict  the  human  heart,  is  your 
and  Fielding's  province,  beyond  any  other 
novelist  I  have  ever  perused.  Richard- 
son indeed  might  perhaps  be  excepted ; 
but  unhappily,  his  dramatis  personal  are 
beings  of  some  other  world ;  and  however 
they  may  captivate  the  inexperienced  ro- 
mantic fancy  of  a  boy  or  girl,  they  will 
ever,  in  proportion  as  we  have  made  hu- 
man nature  our  study,  dissatisfy  our  riper 
minds. 

As  to  my  private  concerns,  I  am  going 
on,  a  mighty  tax-gatherer  before  the 
Lord,  and  have  lately  had  the  interest  to 
get  myself  ranked  on  the  list  of  Excise  as 
a  supervisor.  I  am  not  yet  employed  as 
such,  but  in  a  few  years  I  shall  fall  into 
the  tile  of  supervisorship  by  seniority.  I 
have  had  an  immense  loss  in  the  death  of 
the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  the  patron  from 
whom  all  my  fame  and  good  fortune  took 
its  rise.  Independent  of  my  grateful  at- 
tachment to  him,  which  was  indeed  so 
strong  that  it  pervadi  ry  soul,  and 

was  entwined  with  the  thread  of  my  ex- 
istence ;  so  soon  as  the  prince's  friends 
had  got  in,  (and  every  dog,  yon  know, 
lias  his  day)  my  getting  forward  in  the 
Excise  would  have  been  an  easier  busi- 
ness than  otherwise  it  will  be.  Though 
this  was  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  T  can  live  rind 
rhyme  as  I  am ;  and  as  to  my  boys,  poor 
little  fellows  !  if  I  cannot  place  them  on 
as  high  an  elevation  in  life  as  I  could  wish, 
I  shall,  if  I  am  favoured  so  much  of  the 
Disposer  of  events  as  to  see  that  period, 
fix  them  on  as  broad  and  independent  a 
basis  as  possible.  Among  the  many  wise 
adages  which  have  been  treasured  up  by 
our  Scottish  ancestors,  this  is  one  of  the 
bei  i.  Better  be  the  head  o'  tht  commonalty 
as  the  lail  </  the  gentry. 


But  I  am  got  on  a  subject,  which,  how- 
ever interesting  to  me,  is  of  no  manner  of 
consequence  to  you  :  so  I  shall  give  you 
a  short  poem  on  the  other  page,  and  close 
this  with  assuring  you  how  sincerely  I 
have  the  honour  to  be  yours,  &c. 


Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  book 
which  I  presented  to  a  very  young  lady 
whom  I  had  formerly  characterized  under 
the  denomination  of  The  Rosebud.  See 
Poems,  p.  71. 


No.  CXIII. 
FROM  DR.  MOORE. 
London,  29th  March,  1791. 

DEAR  SIR, 

Your  letter  of  the  28th  of  February 
I  received  only  two  days  ago,  and  this 
day  I  had  the  pleasure  of  waiting  on  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Baird,  at  the  Duke  of  Athole's, 
who  had  been  so  obliging  as  to  transmit 
it  to  me,  with  the  printed  verses  on  Alloa 
Church,  the  Elegy  on  Captain  ITendersony 
and  the  Epitaph.  There  are  many  poeti- 
cal beauties  in  the  former;  what  I  par- 
ticularly admire,  are  the  three  striking 
similes  from — 

"  Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river," 

and  the  eight  lines  which  begin  with 

"  By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, ' 

so  exquisitely  expressive  of  the  supersti- 
tious impressions  of  the  country.  And 
the  twenty-two  lines  from 

"  Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses,"' 

which,  in  my  opinion,  are  equal  to  the  in- 
gredients of  Shakspeare's  cauldron  in 
Macbeth. 

As  for  the  Elegy,  the  chief  merit  of  it 
consists  in  the  very  graphical  description 
of  the  objects  belonging  to  the  country  in 
which  the  poet  writes,  and  which  none 
but  a  Scottish  poet  could  have  described, 
and  none  but  a  real  poet,  and  a  close  ob- 
server of  Nature  could  have  so  described. 


LETTERS. 


165 


There  is  something  original,  .and  to  me 
wonderfully  pleasing  in  the  Epitaph. 

I  remember  you  once  hinted  before, 
what  you  repeat  in  your  last,  that  you 
had  made  some  remarks  on  Zeluco  on  the 
margin.  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see 
them,  and  regret  you  did  not  send  them 
before  the  last  edition,  which  is  just  pub- 
lished. Pray  transcribe  them  for  me ;  I 
Bincerely  value  your  opinion  very  highly, 
and  pray  do  not  suppress  one  of  those  in 
which  yoxicensure  the  sentiment  or  expres- 
sion. Trust  me  it  will  break  no  squares 
between  us — I  am  not  akin  to  the  bishop 
of  Grenada. 

1  must  now  mention  what  has  been  on 
my  mind  for  some  time :  I  cannot  help 
thinking  you  imprudent,  in  scattering 
abroad  so  many  copies  of  your  verses.  It 
is  most  natural  to  give  a  few  to  confiden- 
tial friends,  particularly  to  those  who  are 
connected  with  the  subject,  or  who  are 
perhaps  themselves  the  subject;  but  this 
ought  to  be  done  under  promise  not  to 
give  other  copies.  Of  the  poem  you  sent 
me  on  Queen  Mary,  I  refused  every  so- 
licitation for  copies,  but  I  lately  saw  it  in 
a  newspaper.  My  motive  for  cautioning 
you  on  this  subject,  is,  that  I  wish  to  en- 
gage you  to  collect  all  your  fugitive  pieces, 
not  already  printed  ;  and,  after  they  have 
been  re-considered,  and  polished  to  the 
utmost  of  your  power,  I  would  have  you 
publish  them  by  another  subscription :  in 
promoting  of  which  I  will  exert  myself 
with  pleasure. 

In  your  future  compositions  I  wish  you 
would  use  the  modern  English.  You  have 
shown  your  powers  in  Scottish  sufficient- 
ly. Although  in  certain  subjects  it  gives 
additional  zest  to  the  humour,  yet  it  is 
lost  to  the  English ;  and  why  should  you 
write  only  for  a  part  of  the  island,  when 
you  can  command  the  admiration  of  the 
whole  ! 

If  you  chance  to  write  to  my  friend 
Mrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  I  beg  to  be  affec- 
tionately remembered  to  her.  She  must 
not  judge  of  the  warmth  of  my  sentiments 
respecting  her  by  the  number  of  my  let- 
ters ;  I  hardly  ever  write  a  line  but  on 
business;  and  I  do  not  know  that  I  should 
have  scribbled  all  this  to  you,  but  for  the 
business  part,  that  is,  to  instigate  you  to 
a  new  publication;  and  to  tell  you,  that 
when  you  have  a  sufficient  number  to 
make  a  volume,  you  should  set    your 


friends  on  getting  subscriptions.  I  wish 
I  could  have  a  few  hours'  conversation 
with  you — I  have  many  things  to  say 
which  I  cannot  write.  If  ever  I  go  to 
Scotland,  I  will  let  you  know,  that  you 
may  meet  me  at  your  own  house,  or  my 
friend  Mrs.  Hamilton,  or  both. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir,  &c. 


No.  CXlV. 

TO  THE  REV.  ARCH.  ALISON. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  14th  Feb.  1791. 


You  must,  by  this  time,  have  set  me 
down  as  one  of  the  most  ungrateful  of 
men.  You  did  me  the  honour  to  present 
me  with  a  book  which  does  honour  to 
science  and  the  intellectual  powers  of 
man,  and  I  have  not  even  so  much  as  ac- 
knowledged the  receipt  of  it.  The  fact 
is,  you  yourself  are  to  blame  for  it.  Flat- 
tered as  I  was  by  your  telling  me  that  you 
wished  to  have  my  opinion  of  the  work, 
the  old  spiritual  enemy  of  mankind,  who 
knows  well  that  vanity  is  one  of  the  sins 
that  most  easily  beset  me,  put  it  into  my 
head  to  ponder  over  the  performance  with 
the  look-out  of  a  critic,  and  to  draw  up, 
forsooth,  a  deep-learned  digest  of  stric- 
tures, on  a  composition,  of  which,  in  fact, 
until  I  read  the  book,  I  did  not  even  know 
the  first  principles.  I  own,  Sir,  that,  at 
first  glance,  several  of  your  propositions 
startled  me  as  paradoxical.  That  the 
martial  clangor  of  a  trumpet  had  some- 
thing in  it  vastly  more  grand,  heroic,  and 
sublime,  than  the  twingle-twangle  of  a 
Jew's  harp ;  that  the  delicate  flexure  of  a 
rose  twig,  when  the  half-blown  flower  is 
heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  dawn,  was  in- 
finitely more  beautiful  and  elegant  than 
the  upright  stub  of  a  burdock ;  and  that 
from  something  innate  and  independent 
of  all  association  of  ideas ; — these  I  had 
set  down  as  irrefragable,  orthodox  truths, 
until  perusing  your  book  shook  my  faith. 
In  short,  Sir,  except  Euclid's  Elements  of 
Geometry,  which  I  made  a  shift  to  unra- 
vel by  my  father's  fire-side,  in  the  winter 
evenings  of  the  first  season  I  held  the 
plough,  I  never  read  n  book  which  gav.e 
me  such  a  quantum  of  information,  and 
added  so  much  to  my  stock  of  ideas,  as 
your  "  Essays  on  the  Principles  of  Taste." 
One  thing,  Sir,  you  must  forgive  my  men- 


16C 


I.KTTERS. 


tioningaaan  uncommon  merit  in  the  work, 
]  mean  the  language.  To  clothe  abstract 
philosophy  in  elegance  of  style,  sounds 
something  like  a  contradiction  in  terms  ; 
but  you  have  convinced  me  that  they  are 
quite  compatible. 

I  enclose  you  some  poetic  bagatelles  of 
my  late  composition.  The  one  in  print  is 
my  first  essay  in  the  way  of  telling  a  tale. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c. 


No.  CXV. 

Extract  of  a  Letter 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

12th  March,  1791. 

If  the  foregoing  piece  be  worth  your 
strictures,  let  me  have  them.  For  my  own 
part,  a  thing  that  I  have  just  composed  al- 
ways appears  through  a  double  portion  of 
that  partial  medium  in  which  an  author 
will  ever  view  his  own  works.  I  believe, 
in  general,  novelty  has  something  in  it 
that  inebriates  the  fancy,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  dissipates  and  fumes  away  like 
other  intoxication,  and  leaves  the  poor 
patient,  as  usual,  with  an  aching  heart. 
A  striking  instance  of  this  might  be  ad- 
duced in  the  revolution  of  many  a  hyme- 
neal honey-moon.  But  lest  I  sink  into 
stupid  prose,  and  so  sacrilegiously  intrude 
on  the  office  of  my  parish  priest,  I  shall 
fill  up  the  page  in  my  own  way,  and  give 
you  another  song  of  my  late  composition, 
which  will  appear,  perhaps,  in  Johnson's 
work,  as  well  as  the  former. 

You  must  know  a  beautiful  Jacobite  air, 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 
hame.  When  political  combustion  ceases 
to  be  the  object  of  princes  and  patriots,  it 
then,  you  know  becomes  the  lawful  prey 
of  historians  and  poets.* 


If  you  like  the  air,  and  if  the  stanzas 
hit  your  fancy,  you  cannot  imagine,  my 
dear  friend,  how  much  you  would  oblige 
the,  if,  by  the  charms  of  your  delightful 
voice,  you  would  give  my  honest,  effusion 
to  "  the  memory  of  joys  that  arc  past !" 

*  Flere  followed  a  copy  of  the  Rone  printed  in  p.  83 
of  the  I'oema.    "  By  yon  castle  wa',"  &c. 


to  the  few  friends  whom  you  indulge  in 
that  pleasure.  But  I  have  scribbled  on 
till  1  hear  the  clock  has  intimated  the 
near  approach  of 

"  That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  kcy-stane." 

So,  good  night  to  you !  sound  be  your 
sleep,  and  delectable  your  dreams !  A-pro- 
pos,  how  do  you  like  this  thought  in  a  bal- 
lad I  have  just  now  on  the  tapis  ? 

I  look  to  the  west  when  I  gae  to  rest, 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers  may  be ; 

For  far  in  the  west  is  he  I  lo'e  best, 
Tho  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me ! 


Good  night,  once  more,  and  God  blesB 
you! 


No.  CXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  Uth  April,  1791. 

I  am  once  more  able,  my  honoured 
friend,  to  return  you,  with  my  own  hand, 
thanks  for  the  many  instances  of  your 
friendship,  and  particularly  for  your  kind 
anxiety  in  this  last  disaster  that  my  evil 
genius  had  in  store  for  me.  However, 
life  is  chequered — joy  and  sorrow — for  on 
Saturday  morning  last,  Mrs.  Burns  made 
me  a  present  of  a  fine  boy,  rather  stouter, 
but  not  so  handsome  as  your  godson  was 
at  bis  time  of  life.  Indeed  I  look  on  your 
little  name  sake  to  be  my  chef  d'eeuvre  in 
Mint  species  of  manufacture,  as  I  look  on 
Tarn  o'Shanter  to  be  my  standard  perform- 
ance in  the  poetical  line.  'Tis  true  both 
the  one  and  the  other  discover  a  spice  of 
roguish  waggery  that  might,  perhaps,  be 
as  well  spared  :  but  then  they  also  show, 
in  my  opinion,  a  force  of  genius,  and  a 
finishing  polish,  that  I  despair  of  ever 
excelling.  Mrs.  Burns  is  getting  stout 
again,  and  laid  as  lustily  about  her  to-day 
at  breakfast,  as  a  reaper  from  the  corn 
ridge.  That  is  the  peculiar  privilege  and 
blessing  of  our  hale  sprightly  damsels, 
that  are  bred  among  the  hay  and  heather. 
We  cannot  hope  for  that  highly  polished 
mind,  that  charming  delicacy  of  soul, 
which  is  found  among  the  female  world  in 
the  more  elevated  stations  of  life,  and 
which  is  certainly  by  far  the  most  be- 
witehing  charm  in  the  famous  cestus  of 


LETTERS. 


167 


Venus.  It  is,  indeed,  such  an  inestima- 
ble treasure,  that  where  it  can  be  had  in 
its  native  heavenly  purity,  unstained  by 
some  one  or  other  of  the  many  shades  of 
affectation,  and  unalloyed  by  some  one  or 
other  of  the  many  species  of  caprice,  I 
declare  to  I  leaven,  I  should  think  it  cheap- 
ly purchased  at  the  expense  of  every  other 
earthly  good  !  Hut  as  this  angelic  crea- 
ture is,  1  am  afraid,  extremely  rare  in  any 
station  and  rank  of  life,  and  totally  denied 
to  such  an  humble  one  as  mine :  we 
meaner  mortals  must  put  up  with  the  next 
rank  of  female  excellence — as  fine  a  figure 
and  face  we  can  produce  as  any  rank  of 
life  whatever ;  rustic,  native  grace;  un- 
affected modesty,  and  unsullied  purity  ; 
nature's  mother  wit,  and  the  rudiments  of 
taste  ;  a  simplicity  of  soul,  unsuspicious 
of,  because  unacquainted  with  the  crooked 
ways  of  a  selfish,  interested,  disingenuous 
world;  and  the  dearest  charm  of  all  the 
rest,  a  yielding  sweetness  of  disposition, 
and  a  generous  warmth  of  heart,  grateful 
for  love  on  our  part,  and  ardently  glow- 
ing with  a  more  than  equal  return  ;  these, 
with  a  healthy  frame,  a  sound,  vigorous 
constitution,  which  your  higher  ranks  can 
scarcely  ever  hope  to  enjoy,  are  the 
charms  of  lovely  woman  in  my  humble 
walk  of  life. 

This  is  the  greatest  effort  my  broken 
arm  has  yet  made.  Do  let  me  hear,  by 
first  post,  how  cher  petit  Monsieur  comes 
on  with  his  small-pox.  May  Almighty 
goodness  preserve  and  restore  him  ! 


No.  CXVIT. 
TO  


the  public  papers,  where  you  must  have 
seen  it. 

*        *        *        * 

I  am  ever,  dear  Sir,  yours  sincerely, 
ROBERT  BURNS. 


DEAR    ETR, 

I  am  exceedingly  to  blame  in  not 
writing  you  long  ago ;  but  the  truth  is, 
that  I  am  the  most  indolent  of  all  human 
beings  :  and  when  I  matriculate  in  the 
herald's  office,  I  intend  that  my  support- 
ers shall  be  two  sloths,  my  crest  a  slow- 
worm,  and  the  motto,  "  Deil  tak  the  fore- 
most!" So  much  by  way  of  apology  for 
not  thanking  you  sooner  for  your  kind 
execution  of  my  commission. 

I  would  have  sent  you  the  poem :  but 
somehow  or  other  it  found  its  way  into 


No.  CXVIII. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Uth  June,  1791c 

Let  me  interest  you,  my  dear  Cun- 
ningham, in  behalf  of  the  gentleman  who 
waits  on  you  with  this.  He  is  a  Mr. 
Clarke,  of  Moffat,  principal  school-mas- 
ter there,  and  is  at  present  suffering  se- 
verely under  the  ******  of  one  or  two 
powerful  individuals  of  his  employers. 
He  is  accused  of  harshness  to  *  *  *  *  that 
were  placed  under  his  care.  God  help 
the  teacher,  if  a  man  of  sensibility  and 
genius,  and  such  as  my  friend  Clarke, 
when  a  booby  father  presents  him  with 
his  booby  son,  and  insists  on  lighting  up 
the  rays  of  science  in  a  fellow's  head  whose 
skull  is  impervious  and  inaccessible  by 
any  other  way  than  a  positive  fracture 
with  a  cudgel :  a  fellow  whom,  in  fact,  it 
savours  of  impiety  to  attempt  making  a 
scholar  of,  as  he  has  been  marked  a  block- 
head in  the  book  of  fate,  at  the  Almighty 
fiat  of  his  Creator. 

The  patrons  of  Moffat  school  are  th3 
ministers,  magistrates,  and  town-council 
of  Edinburgh;  and  as  the  business  comes 
now  before  them,  let  me  beg  my  dearest 
friend  to  do  every  thing  in  his  power  to 
serve  the  interests  of  a  man  of  genius  and 
worth,  and  a  man  whom  I  particularly  re- 
spect and  esteem.  You  know  some  good 
fellows  among  the  magistracy  and  council, 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

but  particularly  you  have  much  to  say 
with  a  reverend  gentleman,  to  whom  you 
have  the  honour  of  being  very  nearly  re- 
lated, and  whom  this  country  and  age 
have  had  the  honour  to  produce.  I  need 
not  name  the  historian  of  Charles  V.* 
I  tell  him,  through  the  medium  of  his  ne- 
phew's influence,  that  Mr.  Clarke  is  a 
gentleman  who  will  not  disgrace  even  his 
patronage.     I   know  the  merits  of  the 

*  Dr.  Robertson  wag  uncle  to  Mr.  Cunningham.    E. 


168 


LETTERS. 


cause  thoroughly,  find  say  it,  that  my 
friend  is  falling  a  sacrifice  to  prejudiced 
ignorance,  and  *  *  *  *  *  *.  God  help  the 
children  of  dependence !  Hated  and  per- 
secuted by  their  enemies,  and  too  often, 
alas !  almost  unexceptionably,  received 
by  their  friends  with  disrespect  and  re- 
proach, under  the  thin  disguise  of  cold 
civility  and  humiliating1  advice.  O  !  to 
be  a  sturdy  savage,  stalking  in  the  pride 
of  his  independence,  amid  the  solitary 
wilds  of  his  deserts;  rather  than  in  civi- 
lized life  ;  helplessly  to  tremble  for  a  sub- 
sistence, precarious  as  the  caprice  of  a 
fellow-creature  !  Every  man  has  his  vir- 
tues, and  no  man  is  without  his  failings  ; 
and  curse  on  that  privileged  plain-dealing 
of  friendship,  which  in  the  hour  of  my 
calamity  cannot  reach  forth  the  helping 
hand,  without  at  the  same  time  pointing 
out  those  failings,  and  apportioning  them 
their  share  in  procuring  my  present  dis- 
tress. My  friends,  for  such  the  world 
calls  ye,  and  such  ye  think  yourselves  to 
be,  pass  by  my  virtues  if  you  please,  but 
do,  also,  spare  my  follies :  the  first  will 
witness  in  my  breast  for  themselves,  and 
the  last  will  give  pain  enough  to  the  in- 
genuous mind  without  you.  And  since 
deviating  more  or  less  from  the  paths  of 
propriety  and  rectitude  must  be  incident 
to  human  nature,  do  thou,  Fortune  put  it 
in  my  power,  always  from  myself,  and  of 
myself,  to  bear  the  consequences  of  those 
errors  !  I  do  not  want  to  be  independent 
that  I  may  sin,  but  I  want  to  be  indepen- 
dent in  my  sinning. 

To  return,  in  this  rambling  letter,  to 
the  subject  I  set  out  with,  let  me  recom- 
mend my  friend,  Mr.  Clarke,  to  your  ac- 
quaintance and  good  offices  ;  his  worth 
entitles  him  to  the  one,  and  his  gratitude 
will  merit  the  other.  I  long  much  to  hear 
from  you — Adieu  ! 


No.  CXIX. 
FROM  THE  EARL  OF  BUCIIAN. 

Dryburgh  Abbey,  \lth  June,  1791. 

Lord  BuCHAK  has  the  pleasure  1o  in- 
vite Mr.  Burns  to  make  one  at  the  coro- 
nation of  the  bust  of  Thomson,  on  Ed- 
man  Hill,  on  the  22d  of  September;  for 
which  day,  perhaps,  his  muse  may  inspire 


an  ode  suited  to  the  occasion.  Suppose 
Mr.  Burns  should,  leaving  the  Nith,  go 
across  the  country,  and  meet  the  Tweed 
at  the  nearest  point  from  his  farm — and, 
wandering  along  the  pastoral  banks  of 
Thomson's  pure  parent  stream,  catch  in- 
spiration on  the  devious  walk,  till  he  finds 
Lord  Buchan  sitting  on  the  ruins  of  Dry- 
burgh. There  the  commendator  will  give 
him  a  hearty  welcome,  and  try  to  light 
his  lamp  at  the  pure  flame  of  native  ge- 
nius upon  the  altar  of  Caledonian  virtue. 
This  poetical  perambulation  of  the  Tweed, 
is  a  thought  of  the  late  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot's 
and  of  Lord  Minto's,  followed  out  by  his 
accomplished  grandson,  the  present  Sir 
Gilbert,  who  having  been  with  Lord  Bu- 
chan lately,  the  project  was  renewed,  and 
will,  they  hope,  be  executed  in  the  man- 
ner proposed. 


No.  CXX. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  BUCIIAN. 


MY  LORD, 

'•  Language  sinks  under  the  ardour  of 
my  feelings  when  I  would  thank  your 
Lordship  for  the  honour  you  have  done 
me  in  inviting  me  to  make  one  at  the  co- 
ronation of  the  bust  of  Thomson.  In  my 
first  enthusiasm  in  reading  the  card  you 
did  me  the  honour  to  write  to  me,  I  over- 
looked every  obstacle,  and  determined  to 
go  ;  but  I  fear  it  will  not  be  in  my  power. 
A  week  or  two's  absence,  in  the  very 
middle  of  my  harvest  is  \\«hat  I  much  doubt 
I  dare  not  venture  on. 


Your  Lordship  hints  at  an  ode  for  the 
occasion  :  but  who  could  write  after  Col- 
lins ?  I  read  over  his  verses  to  the  me- 
mory of  Thomson,  and  despaired. — I  got, 
indeed,  to  the  length  of  three  or  four 
stanzas,  in  the  way  of  address  to  the  shade 
of  t  lie  bard,  on  crowning  his  bust.  I  shall 
trouble  your  Lordship  with  the  subjoined 
copy  of  them,  which,  I  am  afraid,  will  be 
but  too  convincing  a  proof  how  unequal 
I  am  to  the  task.  However,  it  affords 
me  an  opportunity  of  approaching  your 
Lordship,  and  declaring  how  sincerely 
und  gratefully  I  have  the  honour  to  be.  &c. 


LETTERS. 


160 


No.  CXXI. 
FROM  THE  SAME. 

Dryburgh  Abbey,  \6th September,  1791. 


Your  address  to  the  shade  of  Thom- 
son has  been  well  received  by  the  public; 
and  though  I  should  disapprove  of  your 
allowing  Pegasus  to  ride  with  you  off  the 
field  of  your  honourable  and  useful  pro- 
fession, yet  I  cannot  resist  an  impulse 
which  I  feel  at  this  moment  to  suggest  to 
your  Muse,  Harvest  Home,  as  an  excel- 
lent subject  for  her  grateful  song,  in  which 
the  peculiar  aspect  and  manners  of  our 
country  might  furnish  an  excellent  por- 
trait and  landscape  of  Scotland,  for  the 
employment  of  happy  moments  of  leisure 
and  recess  from  your  more  important  oc- 
cupations. 


Your  Halloween,  and  Saturday  Night, 
will  remain  to  distant  posterity  as  inter- 
esting pictures  of  rural  innocence  and  hap- 
piness in  your  native  country,  and  were 
happily  written  in  the  dialect  of  the  peo- 
ple; but  Harvest  Home,  being  suited  to 
descriptive  poetry,  except,  where  collo- 
quial, may  escape  the  disguise  of  a  dia- 
lect which  admits  of  no  elegance  or  dig- 
nity of  expression.  Without  the  assist- 
ance of  any  god  or  goddess,  and  without 
the  invocation  of  any  foreign  Muse,  you 
may  convey  in  epistolary  form  the  de- 
scription of  a  scene  so  gladdening  and 
picturesque,  with  all  the  concomitant  lo- 
cal position,  landscape  and  costume  ;  con- 
trasting the  peace,  improvement,  and  hap- 
piness of  the  borders  of  the  once  hostile 
nations  of  Britain,  with  their  former  op- 
pression and  misery ;  and  showing,  in 
lively  and  beautiful  colours,  the  beauties 
and  joys  of  a  rural  life.  And  as  the  un- 
vitiated  heart  is  naturally  disposed  to 
overflow  with  gratitude  in  the  moment  of 
prosperity,  such  a  subject  would  furnish 
you  with  an  amiable  opportunity  of  per- 
petuating the  names  of  Glencairn,  Miller, 
and  your  other  eminent  benefactors ; 
which,  from  what  I  know  of  your  spirit, 
and  have  seen  of  your  poems  and  letters, 
will  not  deviate  from  the  chastity  of  praise 
that  is  so  uniformly  united  to  true  taste 
and  genius, 

I  am  Sir,  &c. 


No.  CXXII. 
TO  LADY  E.  CUNNINGHAM. 

MY  LADI, 

I  would,  as  usual,  have  availed  my- 
self of  the  privilege  your  goodness  has  al- 
lowed me,  of  sending  you  any  thing  I 
compose  in  my  poetical  way ;  but  as  I 
had  resolved,  so  soon  as  the  shock  of  my 
irreparable  loss  wrould  allow  me,  to  pay 
a  tribute  to  my  late  benefactor,  I  deter- 
mined to  make  that  the  first  piece  I  should 
do  myself  the  honour  of  sending  you. 
Had  the  wing  of  my  fancy  been  equal  to 
the  ardour  of  my  heart,  the  enclosed  had 
been  much  more  worthy  your  perusal :  as 
it  is,  I  beg  leave  to  lay  it  at  your  Lady- 
ship's feet.  As  all  the  world  knows  my 
obligations  to  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  I 
would  wish  to  show  as  openly  that  my 
heart  glows,  and  shall  ever  glow  with  the 
most  grateful  sense  and  remembrance  of 
his  Lordship's  goodness.  The  sables  I 
did  myself  the  honour  to  wear  to  his  Lord- 
ship's memory,  were  not  the  "  mockery  of 
wo."  Nor  shall  my  gratitude  perish  with 
me  ! — If,  among  my  children,  I  shall  have 
a  son  that  has  a  heart,  he  shall  hand  it 
down  to  his  child  as  a  family  honour,  and 
a  family  debt,  that  my  dearest  existence  I 
owe  to  the  noble  house  of  Glencairn  ! 

I  was  about  to  say,  my  Lady,  that  if 
you  think  the  poem  may  venture  to  see 
the  light,  I  would,  in  some  way  or  other, 
give  it  to  the  world.* 


No.  CXXIII. 
TO  MR.  AINSLIE. 


MY  DEAR  AINSLIE, 

Can  you  minister  to  a  mind  diseased? 
Can  you,  amid  the  horrors  of  penitence, 
regret,   remorse,   headache,  nausea,  and 

all  the  rest  of  the  d d  hounds  of  hell, 

that  beset  a  poor  wretch  who  has  been 
guilty  of  the  sin  of  drunkenness — can  you 
speak  peace  to  a  troubled  soul  ? 

*  The  poem  enclosed  is  published,— See  "The  La- 
ment for  James  Earl  of  Cilcucairn."    Poems,  p.  GG 


170 


LETTERS. 


Miserable  perdu  that  I  am  !  I  have  tried 
every  thing  that  used  to  amuse  me,  but 
in  vain  :  here  must  I  sit  a  monument  of 
the  vengeance  laid  up  in  store  for  the 
wicked,  slowly  counting  every  check  of 
the  clock  as  it  slowly — slowly,  numbers 
over  these  lazy  scoundrels  of  hours,  who 

d d  them,  are  ranked  up  before  me, 

every  one  at  his  neighbour's  i  ackside,  and 
everyone  with  a  burden  of  anguish  on  his 
back,  to  pour  on  my  devoted  head — and 
there  is  none  to  pity  me.  My  wife  scolds 
me !  my  business  torments  me,  and  my 
sins  come  staring  me  in  the  face,  every 
one  telling  a  more  bitter  tale  than  his  fel- 
low.— When  I  tell  you  even  *  *  *  has 
lost  its  power  to  please,  you  will  guess 
something  of  my  hell  within,  and  all 
around  me. — I  began  Elibanks  and  Eli- 
braes,  but  the  stanzas  fell  unenjoyed  and 
unfinished  from  my  listless  tongue  ;  at 
last  I  luckily  thought  of  reading  over  an 
old  letter  of  yours  that  lay  by  me  in  my 
book-case,  and  I  felt  something,  for  the 
first  time  since  I  opened  my  eyes,  of  plea- 
surable existence. — Well — I  begin  to 
breathe  a  little,  since  I  began  to  write 
you.  How  are  you  ?  and  what  arc  you 
doing?  How  goes  Law?  Apropos,  for 
connexion's  sake,  do  not  address  to  me 
supervisor,  for  that  is  an  honour  I  cannot 
pretend  to — I  am  on  the  list,  as  we  call  it, 
for  a  supervisor,  and  will  be  called  out  by 
and  by  to  act  as  one :  but  at  present  I 
am  a  simple  gauger,  though  t'other  day 
I  got  an  appointment  to  an  excise  division 
of  £'25  per  ann.  better  than  the  rest. 
My  present  income,  down  money,  is  £70 
per  ann. 


T  have  one  or  two  good  fellows  here 
whom  you  would  be  glad  to  know. 


No.  CXXIV. 
FROM  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD. 


Near  Maybolc,  1G  th  October,  1791. 


SIR, 


AeeF.PTofmytlianks  for  your  favour, 
with  tin'  1  .nun  til  mi  1  lie  death  of  my  much- 
esteemed  friend,  and  your  wortliv  pal  ron, 
the  perusal  of  which  pleased  and  affected 


me  much.     The  lines  addressed  to  me 
are  very  flattering. 

I  have  always  thought  it  most  natural 
to  suppose  (and  a  strong  argument  in  fa- 
vour of  a  future  existence)  that  when  we 
see  an  honourable  and  virtuous  man  la- 
bouring under  bodily  infirmities,  and  op- 
pressed by  the  frowns  of  fortune  in  this 
world,  that  there  was  a  happier  state  be- 
yond the  grave ;  where  that  worth  and 
honour,  which  were  neglected  here,  would 
meet  with  their  just  reward;  and  where 
temporal  misfortunes  would  receive  an 
eternal  recompense.  Let  us  cherish  this 
hope  for  our  departed  friend,  and  mode- 
rate our  grief  for  that  loss  we  have  sus- 
tained, knowing  that  he  cannot  return  to 
us,  but  we  may  go  to  him. 

Remember  me  to  your  wife  ;  and  with 
every  good  wish  for  the  prosperity  of 
you  and  your  family,  believe  me  at  all 
times, 

Your  most  sincere  friend, 

JOHN  WHITEFOORD 


No.  CXXV. 
FROM  A.  F.  TYTLER,  ESQ. 

Edinburgh,  21th  November,  1791. 

PEAR  SIR, 

You  have  much  reason  to  blame  me 
for  neglecting  till  now  to  acknowledge 
the  receipt  of  a  most  agreeable  packet, 
containing  The  Whistle,  a  ballad:  and 
The  Lament;  which  reached  me  about 
six  weeks  ago  in  London,  from  whence  I 
am  just  returned.  Your  letter  was  for- 
warded to  me  there  from  Edinburgh, 
where,  as  I  observed  by  the  date,  it  had 
lain  for  some  days.  This  was  an  addi- 
tional reason  for  me  to  have  answered  it 
immediately  on  receiving  it ;  but  the  truth 
was,  the  bustle  of  business,  engagements, 
and  confusion  of  one  kind  or  another,  in 
which  I  found  myself  immersed  all  the 
time  I  was  in  London,  absolutely  put  it. 
out  of  my  power.  But  to  have  done  with 
apologies,  let  me  now  endeavour  to  prove 
myself  in  some  degree  deserving  of  the 
very  flattering  compliment  you  pay  me, 
by  giving  you  at  least  a  frank  and  candid, 
if  it  should  not  be  a  judicious,  criticism  on 
the  poems  you  sent  me. 


LETTERS. 


171 


The  ballad  of  The  Whistle  is,  in  my 
opinion  truly  excellent.  The  old  tradi- 
tion which  you  have  taken  up  is  the  best, 
adapted  lor  a  Bacchanalian  composition 
of  any  I  ever  met  with,  and  you  have  done 
it  full  justice.  In  the  first  place,  the 
Strokes  of  wit  arise  naturally  from  the 
subject,  and  arc  uncommonly  happy.  For 
example, 

•4  The  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they  were  wet, 
"Cynthia  hinted  he'd  And  them  next  nioni." 
"  Tho'  Fate  said — a  hero  should  perish  in  liplit ; 
So  up  rose  bright  Phoebus,— and  down  fell  the  knight." 

In  the  next  place,  you  are  singularly  hap- 
py in  the  discrimination  of  your  heroes, 
and  in  giving  each  the  sentiments  and  lan- 
guage suitable  to  his  character.  And, 
lastly,  you  have  much  merit  in  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  panegyric  which  you  have 
contrived  to  throw  on  each  of  the  dra- 
matis persona,  perfectly  appropriate  to  his 
character.  The  compliment  to  Sir  Ro- 
bert, the  blunt  soldier,  is  peculiarly  fine. 
In  short,  this  composition,  in  my  opinion, 
does  you  great  honour,  and  I  see  not  a 
line  or  word  in  it  which  I  could  wish  to 
be  altered. 

As  to  the  Lament,  I  suspect  from  some 
expressions  in  your  letter  to  me  that  you 
are  more  doubtful  with  respect  to  the 
merits  of  this  piece  than  of  the  other ; 
and  I  own  I  think  you  have  reason  ;  for 
although  it  contains  some  beautiful  stan- 
zas, as  the  first,  "  The  wind  blew  hollow," 
&c. ;  the  fifth,  "  Ye  scatter'd  birds ;"  the 
thirteenth,  "  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice," 
&c.  ;  yet  it  appears  to  me  faulty  as  a 
whole,  and  inferior  to  several  of  those 
you  have  already  published  in  the  same 
strain.  My  principal  objection  lies  against 
the  plan  of  the  piece.  I  think  it  was  un- 
necessary and  improper  to  put  the  lamen- 
tation in  the  mouth  of  a  fictitious  charac- 
ter, an  aged  bard. — It  had  been  much  bet- 
ter to  have  lamented  your  patron  in  your 
own  person,  to  have  expressed  your  ge- 
nuine feelings  for  the  loss,  and  to  have 
Bpokcn  the  language  of  nature,  rather 
than  that  of  fiction,  on  the  subject.  Com- 
pare this  with  your  poem  of  the  same  title 
in  your  printed  volume,  which  begins,  O 
thou  pah  Orb  ;  and  observe  what  it  is  that 
forms  the  charm  of  that  composition.  It 
is  that  it  speaks  the  language  of  trut h  and 
of  nature.  The  change  is,  in  my  opinion 
injudicious  too  in  this  respect,  that  an 
aged  bard  has  much  less  need  of  a  patron 
and  a  protector  than  a  yung  one.  I  have 
Z  2 


thus  given  you,  with  much  freedom,  my 
opinion  of  both  the  pieces.  I  should 
have  made  a  very  ill  return  to  the  com- 
pliment you  paid  me,  if  I  had  given  you 
any  other  than  my  genuine  sentiments. 

It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear 
from  you  when  you  find  leisure;  and  I 
beg  you  will  believe  mc  ever,  dear  Sir, 
yours,  &c 


No.  CXXVI. 

TO  MISS  DAVIES. 

It  is  impossible,  Madam,  that  the  gene- 
rous warmth  and  angelic  purity  of  your 
youthful  mind  can  have  any  idea  of  that 
moral  disease  under  which  I  unhappily 
must  rank  as  the  chief  of  sinners ;  I  mean 
a  turpitude  of  the  moral  powers,  that  may 
be  called  a  lethargy  of  conscience — In 
vain  Remorse  rears  her  horrent  crest,  and 
rouses  all  her  snakes :  beneath  the  deadly 
fixed  eye  and  leaden  hand  of  Indolence, 
their  wildest  ire  is  charmed  into  the  tor- 
por of  the  bat,  slumbering  out  the  rigours 
of  winter  in  the  chink  of  a  ruined  wall. 
Nothing  less,  Madam,  could  have  made 
me  so  long  neglect  your  obliging  com- 
mands. Indeed  I  had  one  apology — the 
bagatelle  was  not  worth  presenting. 
Besides,  so  strongly  am  I  interested  in 
Miss  D 's  fate  and  welfare  in  the  se- 
rious business  of  life,  amid  its  chances  and 
changes ;  that  to  make  her  the  subject  of 
a  silly  ballad,  is  downright  mockery  of 
these  ardent  feelings  ;  'tis  like  an  imper- 
tinent jest  to  a  dying  friend. 

Gracious  Heaven  !  why  this  disparity 
between  our  wishes  and  our  powers? 
Why  is  the  most  generous  wish  to  make 
others  blessed,  impotent  and  ineffectual — 
as  the  idle  breeze  that  crosses  the  path- 
less desert  ?  In  my  walks  of  life  I  have 
met  with  a  few  people  to  whom  how  glad- 
ly would  I  have  said — "  Go  be  happy!" 
I  know  that  your  hearts  have  been  wound- 
ed by  the  scorn  of  the  proud,  whom  ac- 
cident has  placed  above  you — or  worse 
still,  in  whose  hands  arc,  perhaps,  placed 
many  of  the  comforts  of  your  life.  But 
there !  ascend  that  rock,  Independence, 
and  look  justly  down  on  their  littleness  of 
soul.  Make  the  worthless  tremble  under 
your  indignation,  and  the  foolish  sink  be- 
fore your  contempt ;  and  largely  impart, 
that  happiness  to  others  which  I  am  cer- 


172 


LETTERS. 


tain,  will  give  yourselves  so  much  plea- 
sure to  bestow." 


Why,  dear  Madam,  must  I  wake  from 
this  delightful  reverie,  and  find  it  all  a 
dream?  Why,  amid  my  generous  enthu- 
siasm, must  I  find  myself  poor  and  power- 
less, incapable  of  wiping  one  tear  from 
the  eye  of  pity,  or  of  adding  one  comfort 
to  the  friend  I  love! — Out  upon  the 
world  !  say  I,  that  its  affairs  are  adminis- 
tered so  ill !  They  talk  of  reform ; — good 
Heaven  what  a  reform  would  1  make 
among  the  sons,  and  even  the  daughters 
of  men  ! — Down  immediately  should  go 
fools  from  the  high  places  where  misbe- 
gotten chance  has  perked  them  up,  and 
through  life  should  they  skulk,  ever  haunt- 
ed by  their  native  insignificance,  as  the 
body  marches  accompanied  by  its  shadow 
— As  for  a  much  more  formidable  class, the 
knaves,  1  am  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with 
them; — had  I  a  world,  there  should  not 
be  a  knave  in  it. 


But  the  hand  that  could  give,  I  would 
liberally  fill ;  and  I  would  pour  delight  on 
the  heart  that  could  kindly  forgive  and 
generously  love. 


Still,  the  inequalities  of  life  are,  among 
men,  comparatively  tolerable — but  there 
is  a  delicacy,  a  tenderness,  accompanying 
every  view  in  which  we  can  place  lovely 
Woman,  that  are  grated  and  shocked  at 
the  rude,  capricious  distinctions  of  for- 
tune. Woman  is  the  blood  royal  of  life  : 
let  there  be  slight  degrees  of  precedency 
among  them — hut  let.  them  be  all  sacred. 
Whether  this  last  sentiment  be  right  or 
wrong,  I  am  not  accountable ;  it  is  an  ori- 
ginal component  feature  of  my  mind. 


No.  CXXVII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  \lth  December,  1791. 

Many  thanks  to  you,  Madam,  for  your 
good  news  respecting  the  little  floweret 
and  the  mother-plant.  I  hope  my  poetic 
prayers  have  been  heard,  and  will  be  an- 
swered up  to  the  warmest  sincerity  of 


their  fullest  extent ;  and  then  Mrs.  Henri 
will  find  her  little  darling  the  representa- 
tive of  his  late  parent,  in  every  thing  but 
his  abridged  existence. 


I  have  just  finished  the  following  song, 
which,  to  a  lady  the  descendant  of  Wal- 
lace, and  many  heroes  of  his  truly  illustri- 
ous line,  and  herself  the  mother  of  seve- 
ral soldiers,  needs  neither  preface  nor 
apology. 


Scene— A  Field  of  Battle— Time  of  the 
Day,  Evening — the  wounded  and  dying 
of  the  victorious  Army  are  supposed  to 
join  in  the  following 

SONG  OF  DEATH. 

Farewell  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth,  and  ye  skies 

Now  pay  with  the  brnad  set! ins;  sun  ! 
Farewell  loves  and  friendships ;  ye  dear,  tender  ties, 

Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 

Thou  grim  king  of  terrors,  tlion  life's  gloomy  foe, 

Go  frighten  the  coward  ami  slave ; 
Go,  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant!  but  know, 

No  terrois  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 

Thou  strik'st  the  poor  peasant— ho  sinks  in  the  dark, 

Nor  saves  e'en  the  wreck  of  a  name ; 
Thou  strik'st  the  young  hero — a  glorious  mark, 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame ! 

In  the  field  of  proud  honour — our  swords  in  our  hand?, 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — 
While  victory  shines  on  life's  bst  ebbing  sands — 

O,  who  would  not  die  with  the  brave  1* 


The  circumstance  that  gave  rise  to  the 
foregoing  verses,  was  looking  over,  with 
a  musical  friend,  M'Donald's  collection  of 
Highland  airs,  I  was  struck  with  one,  an 
Isle  of  Skye  tune,  entitled  Oran  an  Aoig, 
or,  The  Song  of  Death,  to  the  measure  of 
which  J  have  adapted  my  stanzas.  I  have 
of  late  composed  two  or  three  other  little 
pieces,  which,  ere  yon  full-orbed  moon, 
whose  broad  impudent  face,  now  stares  at 
old  mother  earth  all  night,  shall  have 
shrunk  into  a  modest  crescent,  just  peep- 
ing forth  at  dewy  dawn,  I  shall  find  an 
hour  to  transcribe  for  you.  A  Dieu  je 
vous  commende  ! 


'  *  This  Is  a'little  altered  from  the  cne  given  In  p.  83. 
of  the  Poems. 


LETTERS. 


173 


No.  CXXVIIT. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

5th  January,  1792. 

You  see  my  hurried  life,  Madam :  I 
can  only  command  starts  of  time  :  how- 
ever,  I  am  glad  of  one  thing;  since  I 
finished  the  other  sheet,  the  political  blast 
that  threatened  my  welfare  is  overblown. 
I  have  corresponded  with  Commissioner 
Graham,  for  the  Board  had  made  me  the 
subject  of  their  animadversions  :  and  now 
1  have  the  pleasure  of  informing  you,  that 
all  is  set  to  rights  in  that  quarter.  Now 
as  to  these  informers,  may  the  devil  be 

let  loose  to but  hold !  I  was  praying 

most  fervently  in  my  last  sheet,  and  I 
must  not  so  soon  fall  a  swearing  in  this. 

Alas !  how  little  do  the  wantonly  or 
idly  officious  think  what  mischief  they  do 
by  their  malicious  insinuations,  indirect 
impertinence,  or  thoughtless  blabbings  ! 
What  a  difference  there  is  in  intrinsic 
worth,  candour,  benevolence,  generosity, 
kindness — in  all  the  charities  and  all  the 
virtues,  between  one  class  of  human  be- 
ings and  another !  For  instance,  the  ami- 
able circle  1  so  lately  mixed  with  in  the 

hospitable  hall  of  D ,  their  generous 

hearts — their  uncontaminated,  dignified 
minds — their  informed  and  polished  un- 
derstandings— what  a  contrast,  when  com- 
pared— if  such  comparing  were  not  down- 
right sacrilege — with  the  soul  of  the  mis- 
creant who  can  deliberately  plot  the  de- 
struction of  an  honest  man  that  never 
offended  him,  and  with  a  grin  of  satisfac- 
tion see  the  unfortunate  being,  his  faith- 
ful wife  and  prattling  innocents,  turned 
over  to  beggary  and  ruin  ! 

Your  cup,  my  dear  Madam,  arrived  safe. 
T  had  two  worthy  fellows  dining  with  me 
the  other  day,  when  I  with  great  formali- 
ty, produced  my  whigmeleerie  cup,  and 
told  them  that  it  had  been  a  family-piece 
among  the  descendants  of  Sir  William 
Wallace.  This  roused  such  an  enthusi- 
asm, that  they  insisted  on  bumpering  the 
punch  round  in  it ;  and,  by  and  by,  never 
did  your  great  ancestor  lay  a  Suthron  more 
completely  to  rest,  than  for  a  time  did 
your  cup  my  two  friends.  A-propos ! 
this  is  the  season  of  wishing.  May  God 
bless  you,  my  dear  friend  !  and  bless  me, 
the  humblest  and  sincercst  of  your  friends, 
by  granting  you  yet  many  returns  of  the 


season  !  May  all  good  things  attend  you 
and  yours  wherever  they  are  scattered 
over  the  earth ! 


No.  CXXIX. 
TO  MR.  WILLIAM  SMELLIE, 

TRINTER. 

Dumfries,  22d  January,  1792. 

I  sit  down,  my  dear  Sir,  to  introduce 
a  young  lady  to  you,  and  a  lady  in  the 
first  rank  of  fashion,  too.  What  a  task  ! 
to  you — who  care  no  more  for  the  herd 
of  animals  called  young  ladies,  than  you 
do  for  the  herd  of  animals  called  young 
gentlemen.  To  you — who  despise  and 
detest  the  groupings  and  combinations  of 
fashion,  as  an  idiot  painter  that  seems  in- 
dustrious to  place  staring  fools  and  un- 
principled knaves  in  the  foreground  of  his 
picture,  while  men  of  sense  and  honesty 
are  too  often  thrown  in  the  dimmest 
shades.  Mrs.  Riddle,  who  will  take  this 
letter  to  town  with  her,  and  send  it  to 
you,  is  a  character  that,  even  in  your  own 
way  as  a  naturalist  and  a  philosopher, 
would  be  an  acquisition  tc^your  acquain- 
tance. The  lady  too  is  a  votary  of  the 
muses ;  and  as  I  think  myself  somewhat  of 
a  judge  in  my  own  trade,  I  assure  you  that 
her  verses,  always  correct,  and  often  ele- 
gant, are  much  beyond  the  common  run 
of  the  lady  poetesses  of  the  day.  She  is  a 
great  admirer  of  your  book  :  and,  hearing 
me  say  that  I  was  acquainted  with  you, 
she  begged  to  be  known  to  you,  as  she  is 
just  going  to  pay  her  first  visit  to  our  Ca- 
ledonian capital.  I  told  her  that  her  best 
way  was,  to  desire  her  near  relation,  and 
your  intimate  friend,  Craigdarroch,  to 
have  you  at  his  house  while  she  was  there  ; 
and  lest  you  might  think  of  a  lively  West 
Indian  girl  of  eighteen,  as  girls  of  eighteen 
too  often  deserve  to  be  thought  of,  I  should 
take  care  to  remove  that  prejudice.  To 
be  impartial,  however,  in  appreciating  the 
lady's  merits,  she  has  one  unlucky  failing; 
a  failing  which  you  will  easily  discover, 
as  she  seems  rather  pleased  with  indulg- 
ing in  it ;  and  a  failing  that  you  will  as 
easily  pardon,  as  it  is  a  sin  which  very 
much  besets  yourself; — where  she  dis- 
likes or  despises,  she  is  apt  to  make  no 
move  a  secret  of  it,  than  where  she  es- 
teems and  respects. 


174 


LETTERS. 


I  will  not  present  you  with  tile  unmean- 
ing compliments  of  the  season,  but  I  will 
send  you  my  warmest  wishes  and  most 
ardent  prayers,  that  Fortune  may  never 
throw  your  subsistence  to  the  mercy  oi' 
a  knave,  or  set  your  character  on  the 
judgment  of  a  fool;  but  that,  upright  and 
erect,  you  may  walk  to  an  honest  grave, 
where  men  of  letters  shall  say,  Here  lies 
a  man  who  did  honour  to  science !  and 
men  of  worth  shall  say,  Here  lies  a  man 
who  did  honour  to  human  nature ! 


No.  CXXX. 


TO  MR.  W.  NICOL. 

20th  February,  1792. 

O  thou,  wisest  among  the  wise,  me- 
ridian blaze  of  prudence,  full  moon  of  dis- 
cretion, and  chief  of  many  counsellors  ! 
How  infinitely  is  thy  puddled-headed,  rat- 
tle-headed, wrong-headed,  round-headed 
slave  indebted  to  thy  supereminent  good- 
ness, that  from  the  luminous  path  of  thy 
own  right-lined  rectitude,  thou  lookest 
benignly  down  on  an  erring  wretch,  of 
whom  the  zig-zag  wanderings  defy  all  the 
powers  of  calculation,  from  the  simple 
copulation  of  rmits  up  to  the  hidden  mys- 
teries of  fluxions :  May  one  feeble  ray  of 
that  light  of  wisdom  which  darts  from  thy 
sensorium ,  straight  as  the  arrow  of  heaven, 
and  bright  as  the  meteor  of  inspiration, 
may  it  be  my  portion,  so  that  I  may  be 
less  unworthy  of  the  face  and  favour  of 
that  father  of  proverbs  and  master  of 
maxims,  that  antipode  of  folly,  and  mag- 
net among  the  sages,  the  wise  and  witty 
Willie  Nicol !  Amen  !  Amen  !  Yea,  so 
be  it! 

For  me !  I  am  a  beast,  a  reptile,  and 
know  nothing  !  From  the  cave  of  my  ig- 
norance, amid  the  fogs  of  my  dulness, 
and  pestilential  fumes  of  my  political  he- 
resies, I  look  up  to  thee,  as  doth  a  toad 
through  the  iron-barred  lucerne  of  a  pes- 
tiferous dungeon,  to  the  cloudless  glory 
of  a  summer  sun  !  Sorely  sighing  in 
bitterness  of  soul,  I  say,  when  shall  my 
name  be  the  quotation  of  t he  wise,  and 
my  countenance  be  the  delight  of  f  he  god- 
ly, like  the  illustrious  lord  of  Laggan'e 
many  hills  ?*    As  for  him,  his  works  arc 

•Mr  Nicol. 


perfect:  never  did  the  pen  of  calumny  blur 
the  fair  page  of  his  reputation,  nor  the 
bolt  of  hatred  fly  at  his  dwelling. 


Thou  mirror  of  purity,  when  shall  the 
elfinc  lamp  of  my  glimerous  understand- 
ing, purged  from  sensual  appetites  and 
gross  desires,  shine  like  the  constellation 
of  thy  intellectual  powers  !  As  for  thee, 
thy  thoughts  are  pure,  and  thy  lips  are 
holy.  Never  did  the  unhallowed  breath 
of  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  the  plea- 
sures of  darkness,  pollute  the  sacred 
flame  of  thy  sky-descended  and  heaven- 
bound  desires :  never  did  the  vapours  of 
impurity  stain  the  unclouded  serene  of  thy 
cerulean  imagination.  O  that  like  thine 
were  the  tenor  of  my  life  !  like  thine  the 
tenor  of  my  conversation !  then  should 
no  friend  fear  for  my  strength,  no  enemy 
rejoice  in  my  weakness  !  then  should  I  lie 
down  and  rise  up,  and  none  to  make  me 
afraid. — May  thy  pity  and  thy  prayer  be 
exercised  for,  O  thou  lamp  of  wisdom  and 
mirror  of  morality  !  thy  devoted  slave.* 


No.  CXXXI. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

3d  March,  1792. 

Since  I  wrote  you  the  last  lugubrious 
sheet,  I  have  not  had  time  to  write  you 
farther.  When  I  say  that  I  had  not  time, 
that,  as  usual,  means,  that  the  three  de- 
mons, indolence,  business,  and  ennui,  have 
so  completely  shared  my  hours  among 
them,  as  not  to  leave  me  a  five-minutes' 
fragment  to  take  up  a  pen  in. 

Thank  heaven,  I  feel  my  spirits  buoy- 
ing upwards  with  the  renovating  year. 
Now  I  shall  in  good  earnest  take  up 
Thomson's  songs.  I  dare  say  he  thinks  1 
have  used  him  unkindly,  and  I  must  own 
with  too  much  appearance  of  truth.  A- 
propos  .'  Do  you  know  the  much  admired 
old  Highland  air,  called  The  Sutor's  Doch- 
ter  ?     It  is  a  first-rate  favourite  of  mine, 

*  This  strain  of  irony  was  excited  by  a  letter  of  Mr. 
Nicol,  containing  good  advice 


LETTERS. 


175 


and  I  have  written  what  I  reckon  one  of 
my  best  songs  to  it.  I  will  send  it  to  you 
as  it  was  sung  with  gTeat  applause  in  some 
fashionable  circles  by  Major  Robertson  of 

Lude,  who  was  hero  with  his  corps. 


There  is  one  commission  that  I  must 
trouble  you  with.  I  lately  lost  a  valuable 
seal,  a  present  from  a  departed  friend, 
which  vexes  me  much.  I  have  gotten 
one  of  your  Highland  pebbles,  which  I 
fancy  would  make  a  very  decent  one ;  and 
I  want  to  cut  my  armorial  bearing  on  it ; 
will  you  be  so  obliging  as  inquire  what 
will  be  the  expense  of  such  a  business  ? 
I  do  not  know  that  my  name  is  matricu- 
lated, as  the  heralds  call  it,  at  all ;  but  I 
have  invented  arms  for  myself,  so  you 
know  I  shall  be  chief  of  the  name ;  and, 
by  courtesy  of  Scotland,  will  likewise  be 
entitled  to  supporters.  These,  however, 
I  do  not  intend  having  on  my  seal.  I  am 
a  bit  of  a  herald,  and  shall  give  you,  se- 
cundum artem,  my  arms.  On  a  field,  azure, 
a  holy  bush,  seeded,  proper,  in  base ;  a 
shepherd's  pipe  and  crook,  saltier-wise, 
also  proper,  in  chief.  On  a  wreath  of  the 
colours,  a  wood-lark  perching  on  a  sprig 
of  bay  tree,  proper,  for  crest.  Two  mot- 
toes :  round  the  top  of  the  crest,  Wood 
notes  wild;  at  the  bottom  of  the  shield,  in 
the  usual  place,  Better  a  wee  bush  than  nae 
bield.  By  the  shepherd's  pipe  and  crook 
I  do  not  mean  the  nonsense  of  painters  of 
Arcadia,  but  a  Stock  and  Horn,  and  a 
Club,  such  as  you  see  at  the  head  of  Al- 
lan Ramsay,  in  Allan's  quarto  edition  of 
the  Gentle  Shepherd.  By  the  by,  do  you 
know  Allan  ?  He  must  be  a  man  of  very 
great  genius — Why  is  he  not  more  known? 
— Has  he  no  patrons?  or  do  "  Poverty's 
cold  wind  and  crushing  rain  beat  keen  and 
heavy"  on  him  ?  I  once,  and  but  once, 
got  a  glance  of  that  noble  edition  of  that 
noblest  pastoral  in  the  world ;  and  dear  as 
it  was,  I  mean,  dear  as  to  my  pocket,  I 
would  have  bought  it ;  but  I  was  told  that 
it  was  printed  and  engraved  for  subscri- 
bers only.  He  is  the  only  artist  who  has 
hit  genuine  pastoral  costume.  What,  my 
dear  Cunningham,  is  there  in  riches,  that 
they  narrow  and  harden  the  heart  so  ?  I 
think,  that  were  I  as  rich  as  the  sun,  I 
should  be  as  generous  as  the  day ;  but  as 
I  have  no  reason  to  imagine  my  soul  a 
nobler  one  than  any  other  man's,  I  must 
conclude  that  wealth  imparts  a  bird-lime 


quality  to  the  possessor,  at  which  the 
man,  in  his  native  poverty  would  have  re- 
volted. What  has  led  me  to  this,  is  tho 
idea  of  such  merit  as  Mr.  Allan  possesses, 
and  such  riches  as  a  nabob  or  government 
contractor  possesses,  and  why  they  do  not 
form  a  mutual  league.  Let  wealth  shel- 
ter and  cherish  unprotected  merit,  and 
the  gratitude  and  celebrity  of  that  merit 
will  richly  repay  it. 


No.  CXXXII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

'Annan  Water  Foot,  22d  Aug.  1792. 

Do  not  blame  me  for  it  Madam — my 
own  conscience,  hackneyed  and  weather- 
beaten  as  it  is,  in  watching  and  reproving 
my  vagaries,  follies,  indolence,  &c.  has 
continued  to  blame  and  punish  me  suffi- 
ciently. 


Do  you  think  it  possible,  my  dear  and 
honoured  friend,  thatl  could  be  so  lost 
to  gratitude  for  many  favours ;  to  esteem 
for  much  worth,  and  to  the  honest,  kind, 
pleasurable  tie  of,  now  old  acquaintance, 
and  I  hope  and  am  sure  of  progressive, 
increasing  friendship — as,  for  a  single  day, 
not  to  think  of  you — to  ask  the  Fates  what 
they  are  doing  and  about  to  do  with  my 
much-loved  friend  and  her  wide-scattered 
connexions,  and  to  beg  of  them  to  be  as 
kind  to  you  and  yours  as  they  possibly 
can  ? 

A-propos .'  (though  how  it  is  a-propos, 
I  have  not  leisure  to  explain)  Do  you 
know  that  I  am  almost  in  love  with  an 
acquaintance  of  yours  ? — Almost !  said  I 
— I  am  in  love,  souse  !  over  head  and  ears, 
deep  as  the  most  unfathomable  abyss  of 
the  boundless  ocean ;  but  the  word  Love, 
owing  to  the  inter  mi  nglcdoms  of  the  good 
and  the  bad,  the  pure  and  the  impure, 
in  this  world,  being  rather  an  equivocal 
term  for  expressing  one's  sentiments  and 
sensations,  I  must  do  justice  to  the  saCred 
purity  of  my  attachment.  Know,  then, 
that  the  heart-struck  awe ;  the  distant, 
humble  approach;  the  delight  we  should 
have  in  gazing  upon  and  listening  to  a 


176 


LETTERS. 


Messenger  of  heaven,  appearing  in  all  the 
unspotted  purity  of  his  celestial  home, 
among  the  coarse,  polluted,  far  inferior 
sons  of  men,  to  deliver  to  them  tidings  thai 
make  their  hearts  swim  in  joy,  and  their 
imaginations  soar  in  transport — such,  so 
delighting  and  so  pure,  were  the  emotion 
of  my  soul  on  meeting  the  other  day  with 

Miss  L — B — ,  your  neighbour,  at  M . 

Mr.  B.  with  his  two  daughters  accompa- 
nied by  Mr.  II.  of  G.,  passing  through 
Dumfries  a  few  days  ago,  on  their  way  to 
England,  did  me  the  honour  of  calling  on 
me ;  on  which  I  took  my  horse  (though 
God  knows  I  could  ill  spare  the  time,) 
and  accompanied  them  fourteen  or  fifteen 
miles,  and  dined  and  spent  the  day  with 
them.  'Twas  about  nine,  I  think,  when 
I  left  them ;  and,  riding  home,  I  composed 
the  following  ballad,  of  which  you  will 
probably  think  you  have  a  dear  bargain, 
as  it  will  cost  you  another  groat  of  post- 
age. You  must  know  that  there  is  an  old 
ballad  beginning  with — 

"  My  bonnie  Lizie  Bailie, 
I'll  rowe  thee  in  my  plaidie." 

So  I  parodied  it  as  follows,  which  is  lite- 
rally the  first  copy,  "  unanointed,  unan- 
neal'd;"  as  Hamlet  says. — 

"  O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley,"  &c. 

So  much  for  ballads.  I  regret  that  you 
are  gone  to  the  east  country,  as  I  am  to 
be  in  Ayrshire  in  about  a  fortnight.  This 
world  of  ours,  notwithstanding  it  has  ma- 
ny good  things  in  it,  yet  it  has  ever  had 
this  curse,  that  two  or  three  people,  who 
would  be  the  happier  the  oftener  they 
met  together,  are  almost  without  excep- 
tion, always  so  placed  as  never  to  meet 
but  once  or  twice  a-year,  which,  consider- 
ing the  few  years  of  a  man's  life,  is  a  very 
great  "  evil  under  the  sun,"  which  I  do 
not  recollect  that  Solomon  has  mentioned 
in  his  catalogue  of  the  miseries  of  man. 
I  hope  and  believe  that  there  is  a  state  of 
existence  beyond  the  grave,  where  the 
worthy  of  this  life  will  renew  their  former 
intimacies,  with  this  endearing  addition, 
that,  "  we  meet  to  part  no  more  !" 


"  Tell  us  ye  drad, 
Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret 
What  'tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  he  V 

A  thousand  times  have  I  made  this  apos- 
fr>>;>he  to  the  departed  sons  of  men,  but 
nut  one  of  them  has  ever  thought  fit  to 


answer  the  question.  "  O  that  some  cour- 
teous ghost  would  blab  it  out !"  but  it  can- 
not be  ;  you  and  I,  my  friend,  must  make 
the  experiment  by  ourselves,  and  for  our- 
selves. However,  I  am  so  convinced  that 
an  unshaken  faith  in  the  doctrines  of  re 
ligion  is  not  only  necessary,  by  making 
us  better  men,  but  also  by  making  us  hap- 
pier men,  that  I  shall  take  every  care  that 
your  little  godson,  and  every  little  crea- 
ture that  shall  call  me  father,  shall  be 
taught  them. 

So  ends  this  heterogeneous  letter,  writ- 
ten at  this  wild  place  of  the  world,  in  the 
intervals  of  my  labour  of  discharging  a 
vessel  of  rum  from  Antigua. 


No.  CXXXIII. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries,  10th  September,  1792. 

No !  I  will  not  attempt  an  apology — 
Amid  all  my  hurry  of  business  grinding 
the  faces  of  the  publican  and  the  sinner 
on  the  merciless  wheels  of  the  Excise ; 
making  ballads,  and  then  drinking,  and 
singing  them;  and,  over  and  above  all, 
the  correcting  the  press-work  of  two  dif- 
ferent publications,  still,  still  I  might  have 
stolen  five  minutes  to  dedicate  to  one  of 
the  first  of  my  friends  and  fellow-crea- 
tures. I  might  have  done,  as  I  do  at 
present,  snatched  an  hour  near  "  witch- 
ing time  of  night,"  and  scrawled  a  page 
or  two.  I  might  have  congratulated  my 
friend  on  his  marriage,  or  I  might  have 
thanked  the  Caledonian  archers  for  the 
honour  they  have  done  me  (though  to  do 
myself  justice,  I  intended  to  have  done 
both  in  rhyme,  else  I  had  done  both  long 
ere  now.)  Well,  then,  here  is  to  your 
good  health !  for  you  must  know  I  have 
set  a  nipperkin  of  toddy  by  me,  just  by 
way  of  spell,  to  keep  away  the  meikle 
horned  Deil,  or  any  of  his  subaltern  imps 
who  may  be  on  their  nightly  rounds. 

But  what  shall  I  write  to  you  ?  "  The 
voice  said,  Cry  !  and  I  said,  What  shall  I 
cry?" — O,  thou  spirit!  whatever  thou  art, 
or  wherever  thou  makest  thyself  visible  ! 
be  thou  a  bogle  by  the  eerie  side  of  an  auld 
thorn,  in  the  dreary  glen  through  which 
the  herd  callan  maun  bicker  in  his  gloa- 


LETTERS. 


177 


min  route  frae  the  fauldc !  Be  thou  a 
brownie,  set,  at  dead  of  night,  to  thy  task 
by  the  blazing  ingle,  or  in  the  solitary 
barn,  where  the  repercussions  of  thy  iron 
flail  half  affright  thyself  as  thou  perform- 
est  the  work  of  twenty  of  the  sons  of  men, 
ere  the  cock-crowing  summon  thee  to  thy 
ample  cog  of  substantial  brose.  Be  thou 
a  kelpie,  haunting  the  ford  or  ferry,  in  the 
starless  night,  mixing  thy  laughing  yell 
with  the  howling  of  the  storm  and  the 
roaring  of  the  flood,  as  thou  viewest  the 
perils  and  miseries  of  man  on  the  founder- 
ing horse,  or  in  the  tumbling  boat ! — Or, 
lastly,  be  thou  a  ghost,  paying  thy  noc- 
turnal visits  to  the  hoary  ruins  of  decayed 
grandeur;  or  performing  thy  mystic  rites  in 
the  shadow  of  the  time-worn  church,  while 
the  moon  looks,  without  a  cloud,  on  the 
silent  ghastly  dwellings  of  the  dead  around 
thee ;  or  taking  thy  stand  by  the  bedside 
of  the  villain,  or  the  murderer,  portraying 
on  his  dreaming  fancy,  pictures,  dreadful 
as  the  horrors  of  unveiled  hell,  and  terri- 
ble as  the  wrath  of  incensed  Deity ! — 
Come,  thou  spirit !  but  not  in  these  hor- 
rid forms  :  come  with  the  milder,  gentle, 
easy  inspirations  which  thou  breathest 
round  the  wig  of  a  prating  advocate,  or 
the  tcte  of  a  tea-sipping  gossip,  while 
their  tongues  run  at  the  light-horse  gal- 
lop of  clish-maclaver  for  ever  and  ever — 
come  and  assist  a  poor  devil  who  is  quite 
jaded  in  the  attempt  to  share  half  an  idea 
among  half  a  hundred  words ;  to  fill  up 
four  quarto  pages,  while  he  has  not  got 
one  single  sentence  of  recollection,  infor- 
mation, or  remark,  worth  putting  pen  to 
paper  for. 

I  feel,  I  feel  the  presence  of  supernatu- 
ral assistance  !  circled  in  the  embrace  of 
my  elbow-chair,  my  breast  labours  like 
the  bloated  Sibyl  on  her  three-footed  stool, 
and  like  her  too,  labours  with  Nonsense. 
Nonsense,  auspicious  name!  Tutor,  friend, 
and  finger-post  in  the  mystic  mazes  of  law; 
the  cadaverous  paths  of  physic  ;  and  par- 
ticularly in  the  sightless  soarings  of  school 
t>  i  v  i  \  ttv,w1io  leaving  Common  Sense  con- 
founded at  his  strength  of  pinion,  Reason, 
delirious  with  eyeing  his  giddy  flight ;  and 
Truth  creeping  back  into  the  bottom  of 
her  well,  cursing  the  hour  that  ever  she 
offered  her  scorned  alliance  to  the  wizard 
power  of  Thcologic  Vision — raves  abroad 
on  all  the  winds.  "  On  earth,  Discord  ! 
a  gloomy  Heaven  above  opening  her  jea- 
lous gates  to  the  nineteen  thousandth  part 
of  the  tithe  of  mankind  !  and  below,  an  in- 
escapable and  inexorable  Hell,  expanding 


its  leviathan  jaws  for  the  vast  residue  of 
mortals  !  !  !"  O  doctrine  !  comfortable  and 
healing  to  the  weary,  wounded  soul  of 
man  !  Ye  sons  and  daughters  of  affliction, 
ye  pauvres  miserables,  to  whom  day  brings 
no  pleasure,  and  night  yields  no  rest,  be 
comforted !  "  'Tis  but  one  to  nineteen 
hundred  thousand  that  your  situation  will 
mend  in  this  world;"  so,  alas!  the  expe- 
rience of  the  poor  and  the  needy  too  often 
affirms;  and,  'tis  nineteen  hundred  thou- 
sand to  one,  by  the  dogmas  of  ******** 
that  you  will  be  damned  eternally  in  the 
world  to  come ! 

But  of  all  Nonsense,  Religious  Non- 
sense is  the  most  nonsensical ;  so  enough, 
and  more  than  enough,  of  it.  Only,  by 
the  by,  will  you,  or  can  you  tell  me,  my 
dear  Cunningham,  why  a  sectarian  turn 
of  mind  has  always  a  tendency  to  narrow 
and  illiberalize  the  heart  ?  They  are  or- 
derly: they  may  be  just;  nay,  I  have 
known  them  merciful ;  but  still  your  chil- 
dren of  sanctity  move  among  their  fellow- 
creatures,  with  a  nostril-snuffing  putres- 
cence, and  a  foot-spurning  filth  ;  in  short, 
with  a  conceited  dignity  that  your  titled 
*  *  *  *  or  any  other  of  your  Scottish 
lordlings  of  seven  centuries'  standing,  dis- 
play when  they  accidentally  mix  among 
the  many-aproned  sons  of  mechanical  life. 
I  remember,  in  my  plough-boy  days,  I 
could  not  conceive  it  possible  that  a  noble 
lord  could  be  a  fool,  or  a  godly  man  could 
be  a  knave. — How  ignorant  are  plough- 
boys  ! — Nay,  I  have  since  discovered  that 
a  godly  woman  may  be  a  *  *  *  *  *  ! — But 
hold — Here's  t'ye  again — this  rum  is  ge- 
nerous Antigua,  so  a  very  unfit  menstru- 
um for  scandal. 

A-propos ;  How  do  you  like,  I  mean 
really,  like  the  married  life  ?  Ah !  my 
friend  matrimony  is  quite  a  different  thing 
from  what  your  love-sick  youths  and  sigh- 
ing girls  take  it  to  be  !  But  marriage,  we 
are  told,  is  appointed  by  God,  and  1  shall 
never  quarrel  with  any  of  his  institutions. 
I  am  a  husband  of  older  standing  than  you, 
and  shall  give  you  my  ideas  of  the  conju- 
gal state  {en  passant,  you  know  I  am  no 
Latinist :  is  not  conjugal  derived  from^M- 
gum,  a  yoke  ?)  Well,  then  the  scale  of 
good  wifeship  T  divide  into  ten  parts:  — 
Good-nature,  four ;  Good  Sense,  two ; 
Wit,  one ;  Personal  Charms,  viz.  a  sweet 
face,  eloquent  eyes,  fine  limbs,  graceful 
enrringe  (I  would  add  a  fine  waist  too,  but 
that  is  soon  spoiled  you  know,)  all  these, 
one;  as  for  the  other  qualities  belonging 


178 


LETTERS. 


to,  or  attending  on,  a  wife,  such  as  For- 
tune, Connexions,  Education,  (1  mean 
education  extraordinary,)  Family  Blood, 
&c,  divide  the  two  remaining  degrees 
among  them  as  you  please ;  only  remem- 
ber that  all  these  minor  properties  must 
be  expressed  by  fractions,  for  there  is  not 
any  one  of  them  in  the  aforesaid  scale,  en- 
titled to  the  dignity  of  an  integer. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  fancies   and 
reveries — how   I  lately  met   with  Miss 

L B ,  the  most  beautiful,  elegant 

woman  in  the  world — how  I  accompanied 
her  and  her  father's  family  fifteen  miles 
on  their  journey  out  of  pure  devotion,  to 
admire  the  loveliness  of  the  works  of  God, 
in  such  an  unequalled  display  of  them — 
how,  in  galloping  home  at  night,  I  made  a 
ballad  on  her,  of  which  these  two  stanzas 
made  a  part — 


Thou,  bonnie  L- 


,  art  a  queen, 


Tljy  subjects  we  before  thee ; 

Thou,  bonnie  L -,  art  divine, 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  very  Deil  he  could  na  scathe 

Whatever  wad  belang  thee ! 
He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 

And  say,  "  I  canna  wrang  thee  !" 

— Behold  all  these  things  are  written  in 
the  chronicles  of  my  imaginations,  and 
shall  be  read  by  thee,  my  dear  friend, 
and  by  thy  beloved  spouse,  my  other  dear 
friend,  at  a  more  convenient  season. 

Now,  to  thee,  and  to  thy  before  de- 
signed frosom-companion,  be  given  the 
precious  things  brought  forth  by  the  sun, 
and  the  precious  things  brought  forth  by 
the  moon,  and  the  benignest  influences  of 
the  stars,  and  the  living  streams  which 
flow  from  the  fountains  of  life,  and  by 
the  tree  of  life,  for  ever  and  ever  ! 
Amen ! 


No.  CXXXIV. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  24tk  September,  1792. 

I  havk  this  moment,  my  dear  Madam, 
yours  of  the  twenty-third.  All  your 
other  kind  reproaches,  your  news,  &c. 
are  out  of  my  head  when  I  read  and  think 
on  Mrs.   H-    'fi  situation.     Good  God  ! 


a  heart-wounded,  helpless  young  woman 
— in  a  strange,  foreign  land,  and  that  land 
convulsed  with  every  horror  that  can  har- 
row the  human  feelings — sick — looking, 
longing  for  a  comforter,  but  finding  none 
— a  mother's  feelings  too — but  it  is  too 
much :  He  who  wounded  (He  only  can) 
may  He  heal  !* 


I  wish  the  farmer  great  joy  of  his  new 
acquisition  to  his  family,  *  *  *  * 
I  cannot  say  that  I  give  him  joy  of  his 
life  as  a  farmer.  'Tis,  as  a  farmer  pay- 
ing a  dear,  unconscionable  rent,  a  cwsed 
life !  As  to  a  laird  farming  his  own  pro- 
perty ;  sowing  his  own  corn  in  hope ;  and 
reaping  it,  in  spite  of  brittle  weather,  in 
gladness  :  knowing  that  none  can  say 
unto  him,  "what  dost  thou!" — fattening 
his  herds;  shearing  his  flocks;  rejoicing 
at  Christmas :  and  begetting  sons  and 
daughters,  until  he  be  the  venerated, 
gray-haired  leader  of  a  little  tribe — 'tis 
a  heavenly  life  ! — But  devil  take  the  life 
of  reaping  the  fruits  that  another  must 
eat! 

Well,  your  kind  wishes  will  be  grati- 
fied, as  to   seeing  me,  when  I  make  my 

Ayrshire  visit.    I  cannot  leave  Mrs.  B 

until  her  nine  months'  race  is  run,  which 
may  perhaps  be  in  three  or  four  weeks. 
She,  too,  seems  determined  to  make  me 
the  patriarchal  leader  of  a  band.  How- 
ever, if  Heaven  will  be  so  obliging  as  to 
let  me  have  them  in  proportion  of  three 
boys  to  one  girl,  I  shall  be  so  much  the 
more  pleased.  I  hope,  if  I  am  spared 
with  them,  to  show  a  set  of  boys  that  will 
do  honour  to  my  cares  and  name  ;  but  I 
am  not  equal  to  the  task  of  rearing  girls. 
Besides,  I  am  too  poor :  a  girl  should  al- 
ways have  a  fortune. — A-propos  ;  your 
little  godson  is  thriving  charmingly,  but 
is  a  very  devil.  He,  though  two  years 
younger,  has  completely  mastered  his 
brother.  Robert  is  indeed  the  mildest, 
gentlest  creature  I  ever  saw.  He  has  a 
most  surprising  memory,  and  is  quite  the 
pride  of  his  schoolmaster. 

You  know  how  readily  we  get  into 
prattle  upon  a  subject  dear  to  our  heart: 
You  can  excuse  it.  God  bless  you  and 
yours ! 

*  This  much  lamented  lady  was  pone  to  the  pouthof 
France  with  her  infant  sun,  where  she  died  Boon  uflcr 


LETTERS. 


179 


No.  CXXXV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Supposed  to  have  been  written  on  the  Death 
of  Mrs.  H ,  her  daughter. 

I  had  been  from  home,  and  did  not  re- 
ceive your  letter  until  my  return  the  other 
day.  What  shall  I  say  to  comfort  you, 
my  much-valued,  much  afflicted  friend  ! 
I  can  but  grieve  with  you  ;  consolation  I 
have  none  to  offer,  except  that  whicli  re- 
ligion holds  out  to  the  children  of  afflic- 
tion— Children  of  affliction  .' — how  just 
the  expression  !.  and  like  every  other  fa- 
mily, they  have  matters  among  them, 
which  they  hear,  see,  and  feel  in  a  serious, 
all-important  manner,  of  which  the  world 
has  not,  nor  cares  to  have,  any  idea.  The 
world  looks  indifferently  on,  makes  the 
passing  remark,  and  proceeds  to  the  next 
novel  occurrence. 

Alas,  Madam  !  who  would  wish  for 
many  years  ?  What  is  it  but  to  drag  ex- 
istence until  our  joys  gradually  expire, 
and  leave  us  in  a  night  of  misery  ;  like 
the  gloom  which  blots  out  the  stars  one 
by  one,  from  the  face  of  night,  and  leaves 
us  without  a  ray  of  comfort  in  the  howl- 
ing waste ! 


I  am  interrupted,  and  must  leave  off. 
You  shall  soon  hear  from  me  again. 


No.  CXXXVI. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  6th  December,  1792. 

I  shall  be  in  Ayrshire,  I  think  next, 
week  ;  and,  if  at  all  possible,  I  shall  cer- 
tainly, my  much-esteemed  friend,  have 
the  pleasure  of  visiting  at  Dunlop-House. 


Alas,  Madam !  how  seldom  do  we  meet 
in  this  world  that  we  have  reason  to  con- 
gratulate ourselves  on  accecsions  of  hap- 
piness !  I  have  not  passed  half  the  ordi- 
nary term  of  an  old  man's  life,  and  yet  I 
scarcely  look  over  the  obituary  of  a  news- 
paper, that  I  do  not  see  some  names  that 
I  have  known,  and  which  I  and  other  ac- 
quaintances, little  thought  to  meet  with 
A  a 


there  so  soon.  Every  other  instance  of 
the  mortality  of  our  kind  makes  us  cast 
an  anxious  look  into  the  dreadful  abyss  of 
uncertainty,  and  shudder  with  apprehen- 
sion for  our  own  fate.  But  of  how  differ- 
ent an  importance  arc  the  lives  of  different 
individuals  ?  Nay,  of  what  importance  is 
one  period  of  the  same  life  more  than  ano- 
ther? A  few  years  ago,  I  could  have  lain 
down  in  the  dust,  "  careless  of  the  voice 
of  the  morning;"  and  now  not  a  few, 
and  these  most  helpless  individuals,  would, 
on  losing  me  and  my  exertions,  lose  both 
their  "  staff  and  shield."  By  the  way, 
these  helpless  ones  have  lately  got  an  ad- 
dition,  Mrs.  B having  given  me  a 

tine  girl  since  I  wrote  you.  There  is  a 
charming  passage  in  Thomson's  Edward 
and  Eleanora — 

"  The  valiant  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  ? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  1"  &c. 

As  I  am  got  in  the  way  of  quotations, 
I  shall  give  you  another  from  the  same 
piece,  peculiarly,  alas  !  too  peculiarly  ap- 
posite, my  dear  Madam,  to  your  present 
frame  of  mind  : 

"  Who  so  unworthy  but  may  proudly  deck  him 
With  his  fair-weather  virtue,  that  exults 
Glad  o'er  the  summer  main  1  the  tempest  comes, 
The  rough  winds  rage  aloud ;  when  from  the  helm 
This  virtue  shrinks,  and  in  a  corner  lies 
Lamenting — Heavens  !  if  privileged  from  trial, 
How  cheap  a  thing  were  virtue  !" 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard  you 
mention  Thomson's  dramas.  I  pick  up 
favourite  quotations,  and  store  them  in 
my  mind  as  ready  armour,  offensive  or 
defensive,  amid  the  struggle  of  this  tur- 
bulent existence.  Of  these  is  one,  a  very 
favourite  one,  from  his  Alfred: 

"  Attach  thee  firmly  to  the  virtuous  deeds 

And  offices  of  life  ;  to  life  itself, 

With  all  its  vain  and  transient  joys,  sit  loose-" 

Probably  I  have  quoted  some  of  these 
to  you  formerly,  as  indeed  when  I  write 
from  the  heart,  I  am  apt  to  be  guilty  of 
such  repetitions.  The  compass  of  the 
heart,  in  the  musical  style  of  expression, 
is  much  more  bounded  than  that  of  the 
imagination ;  so  the  notes  of  the  former 
are  extremely  apt  to  run  into  one  another ; 
but  in  return  for  the  paucity  of  its  com 
pass,  its  few  notes  are  much  more  sweet. 
I  must  still  give  you  another  quotation, 
which  I  am  almost  sure  I  have  given  you 
before,  but  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation. 


180 


LETTERS. 


The  subject  is  religion — speaking  of  its 
importance  to  mankind,  the  author  says, 

"  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning  bright, 

'Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 

When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends  are  few  ; 

When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes  pursue  ; 

'Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the  smart, 

Disarms  affiictiou,  or  repels  his  dart ; 

Within  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 

Bids  smiling  conscience  spread  her  cloudless  skies." 

I  see  you  are  in  for  a  double  postage, 
so  I  shall  e'en  scribble  out  t'other  sheet. 
We,  in  this  country  here,  have  many 
alarms  of  the  reforming,  or  rather  the  re- 
publican spirit,  of  your  part  of  the  king- 
dom. Indeed,  we  are  a  good  deal  in  com- 
motion ourselves.  For  me,  I  am  a  place- 
man, you  know :  a  very  humble  one  in- 
deed, Heaven  knows,  but  still  so  much  so 
as  to  gag  me.  What  my  private  senti- 
ments are,  you  will  find  out  without  an 
interpreter. 


I  have  taken  up  the  subject  in  another 
view,  and  the  other  day,  for  a  pretty  Ac- 
tress's benefit-night,  I  wrote  an  Address, 
which  I  will  give  on  the  other  page,  call- 
ed The  Rights  of  Woman.* 

I  shall  have  the  honour  of  receiving 
your  criticisms  in  person  at  Dunlop. 


No.  CXXXVI1. 


TO  MISS  B*****,  OF  YORK. 


21st  March,  1792. 


MADAM, 


A  mong  many  things  for  which  T  envy 
those  hale,  long-lived  old  fellows  before 
the  flood,  is  this  in  particular,  that  when 
they  met  with  any  body  after  their  own 
heart,  they  had  a  charming  long  prospect 
of  many,  many  happy  meetings  with  them 
in  after-life. 

Now,  in  this  short,  stormy,  winter  day 
of  our  fleeting  existence,  when  you,  now 
and  then,  in  the  Chapter  of  Accidents, 
meet  an  individual  whose  acquaintance 
is  a  real  acquisition,  there  are  all  the  pro- 

*  See  Poems,  p.  83. 


babilitics  against  you,  that  you  shall  never 
meet  with  that  valued  character  more.  On 
the  other  hand,  brief  as  this  miserable  be- 
ing is,  it  is  none  of  the  least  of  the  mise- 
ries belonging  to  it,  that  if  there  is  any 
miscreant  whom  you  hate,  or  creature 
whom  you  despise,  the  ill  run  of  the 
chances  shall  be  so  against  you,  that  in 
the  overtakings,  turnings,  and  jostlings  of 
life,  pop,  at  some  unlucky  corner  eternal- 
ly comes  the  wretch  upon  you,  and  will 
not  allow  your  indignation  or  contempt  a 
moment's  repose.  As  I  am  a  sturdy  be- 
liever in  the  powers  of  darkness,  I  take 
these  to  be  the  doings  of  that  old  author 
of  mischief,  the  devil.  It  is  well  known 
that  he  has  some  kind  of%short-hand  way 
of  taking  down  our  thoughts,  and  I  make 
no  doubt  that  he  is  perfectly  acquainted 
with  my  sentiments  respecting  MissB — ; 
how  much  I  admired  her  abilities,  and 
valued  her  worth,  and  how  very  fortunate 
I  thought  myself  in  her  acquaintance.  For 
this  last  reason,  my  dear  Madam,  I  must 
entertain  no  hopes  of  the  very  great  plea- 
sure of  meeting  with  you  again. 

Miss  H tells  me  that  she  is  sending 

a  packet  to  you,  and  I  beg  leave  to  send 
you  the  enclosed  sonnet,  though,  to  tell 
you  the  real  truth,  the  sonnet  is  a  mere 
pretence,  that  I  may  have  the  opportuni- 
ty of  declaring  with  how  much  respectful 
esteem  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 


No.  CXXXVIII. 


TO  MISS  C****. 


August,  1793. 


MADAM, 


Some  rather  unlooked-for  accidents 
have  prevented  my  doing  myself  the  ho- 
nour of  a  second  visit  to  Arbeigland,  as  I 
was  so  hospitably  invited,  and  so  positive- 
ly meant  to  have  done. — However,  I  still 
hope  to  have  that  pleasure  before  the  bu- 
sy months  of  harvest  begin. 

I  enclose  you  two  of  my  late  pieces,  as 
some  kind  of  return  for  the  pleasure  I  have 
received  in  perusing  a  certain  MS.  volume 
of  poems  in  the  possession  of  Captain  Rid- 
del. To  repay  one  with  an  old  song,  is  a 
proverb,  whose  force,  you,  Madam,  I 
know,  will  not  allow.  What  is  said  of 
illustrious  descent  is,  I  believe  equally 


LETTERS. 


101 


true  of  a  talent  for  poetry,  none  ever  de- 
spised it  who  had  pretensions  to  it.    The 
fates  and  characters  of  the  rhyming-  tribe 
often  employ  my  thoughts  when  I  am  dis- 
posed to  be  melancholy.     There  is  not 
among  all   the  martyrologies  that   ever 
were  penned,  so  rueful  a  narrative  as  the 
lives  of  the  poets. — In  the  comparative 
view  of  wretches,  the  criterion  is  not  what 
they  are  doomed  to  suffer,  but  how  they 
are  formed  to  bear.     Take  a  being  of  our 
kind,  give  him  a  stronger  imagination  and 
a  more  delicate  sensibility,  which  between 
them  will  ever  engender  a  more  ungovern- 
able set  of  passions  than  are  the  usual  lot 
of  man  ;  implant  in  him  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse to  some  idle  vagary,  such  as  ar- 
ranging wild  flowers  in  fantastical  nose- 
gays, tracing  the  grasshopper  to  his  haunt 
by  his  chirping  song,  watching  the  frisks 
of  the  little  minnows,  in  the  sunny  pool, 
or  hunting  after  the  intrigues  of  butter- 
flies— in  short,  send  him  adrift  after  some 
pursuit  which  shall  eternally  mislead  him 
from  the  paths  of  lucre,  and  yet  curse  him 
with  a  keener  relish  than  any  man  living 
for  the  pleasures  that  lucre  can  purchase: 
lastly,  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  woes  by 
bestowing  on  him  a  spurning  sense  of  his 
own  dignity,  and  you  have  created  a  wight 
nearly  as  miserable  as  a  poet.     To  you, 
Madam,  I  need  not  recount  the  fairy  plea- 
sures the  muse  bestows  to  counterbalance 
this  catalogue  of  evils.    Bewitching  poe- 
try is  like  bewitching  woman ;  she  has  in 
all  ages  been  accused  of  misleading  man- 
kind from  the  councils  of  wisdom  and  the 
paths  of  prudence,  involving  them  in  diffi- 
culties, baiting  them  with  poverty,  brand- 
ing them  with  infamy,  and  plunging  them 
in  the  whirling  vortex  of  ruin ;  yet  where 
is  the  man  but  must  own  that  all  our  hap- 
piness on  earth  is  not  worthy  the  name — 
that  even  the  holy  hermit's  solitary  pros- 
pect of  paradisaical  bliss  is  but  the  glitter 
of  a  northern  sun  rising  over  a  frozen  re- 
gion, compared  with  the  many  pleasures, 
the  nameless  raptures  that  we  owe  to  the 
lovely  Queen  of  the  heart  of  Man! 


No.  CXXXIX. 
TO  JOHN  M'MURDO,  ESQ. 

December,  1793. 


It  is  said  that  we  take  the  greatest 
liberties  with  our  greatest  friends  and  I 


pay  myself  a  very  high  compliment  in  the 
manner  in  which  I  am  going  to  apply  the 
remark.  I  have  owed  you  money  longer 
than  ever  I  owed  to  any  man.  Here  is 
Ker's  account,  and  here  are  six  guineas ; 
and  now,  I  don't  owe  a  shilling  to  man — 
or  woman  either.  But  for  these  damned 
dirty,  dog's-eared  little  pages,*  I  had  done 
myself  the  honour  to  have  waited  on  you 
long  ago.  Independent  of  the  obligations 
your  hospitality  has  laid  me  under ;  the 
consciousness  of  your  superiority  in  the 
rank  of  man  and  gentleman,  of  itself  was 
fully  as  much  as  I  could  ever  make  head 
against ;  but  to  owe  you  money  too,  was 
more  than  I  could  face. 

I  think  I  once  mentioned  something  of 
a  collection  of  Scots  songs  I  have  some 
years  been  making :  I  send  you  a  perusal 
of  what  I  have  got  together.  I  could  not 
conveniently  spare  them  above  five  or  six 
days,  and  five  or  six  glances  of  them  will 
probably  more  than  suffice  you.  A  very 
few  of  them  are  my  own.  When  you  are 
tired  of  them,  please  leave  them  with  Mr. 
Clint,  of  the  King's  Arms.  There  is  not 
another  copy  of  the  collection  in  the  world ; 
and  I  should  be  sorry  that  any  unfortunate 
negligence  should  deprive  me  of  what  has 
cost  me  a  good  deal  of  pains. 


No.  CXL. 

TO  MRS.  R*****, 

Who  was  to  bespeak  a  Play  one  Evening  at 
the  Dumfries  Theatre. 


I  am  thinking  to  send  my  Address  to 
some  periodical  publication,  but  it  has  not 
got  your  sanction,  so  pray  look  over  it. 

As  to  the  Tuesday's  play,  let  me  beg  of 
you,  my  dear  Madam,  to  give  us,  The 
Wonder,  a  Woman  keeps  a  Secret !  to 
which  please  add,  The  Spoilt  Child — you 
will  highly  oblige  me  by  so  doing. 

Ah  !  what  an  enviable  creature  you 
are !  There  now,  this  cursed  gloomy  blue- 
devil  day,  you  are  going  to  a  party  of  choice 
spirits — 

*  Scottish  Bank  Notes, 


182 


LETTERS. 


"  To  play  the  shapes 
Of  frolic  fancy,  and  incessant  form, 
Those  rapid  pictures,  that  assembled  train 
Of  fleet  idcis,  never  juin'd  before, 
Where  lively  wit  excites  to  gay  surprise  ; 
Or  folly-painting  humour,  grave  himself, 
Calls  laughter  forth,  deep-shaking  every  nerve." 

But  as  you  rejoice  with  them  that  do 
rejoice,  do  also  remember  to  weep  with 
them  that  weep,  and  pity  your  melancholy 
friend. 


No.  CXLI. 

To  a  Lady,  in  favour  of a  Player's  Benefit. 


You  were  so  very  good  as  to  promise 
me  to  honour  my  friend  with  your  pre- 
sence on  his  benefit-night.  That  night 
is  fixed  for  Friday  first !  the  play  a  most 
interesting  one  !  The  Way  to  keep  him. 
I  have  the  pleasure  to  know  Mr.  G.  well. 
His  merit  as  an  actor  is  generally  ac- 
knowledged. He  has  genius  and  worth 
which  would  do  honour  to  patronage ;  he 
is  a  poor  and  modest  man  :  claims  which 
from  their  very  silence  have  the  more 
forcible  power  on  the  generous  heart. 
Alas,  for  pity  !  that  from  the  indolence  of 
those  who  have  the  good  things  of  this 
life  in  their  gift,  too  often  does  brazen- 
fronted  importunity  snatch  that  boon,  the 
rightful  due  of  retiring,  humble  want ! 
Of  all  the  qualities  we  assign  to  the  au- 
thor and  director  of  Nature,  by  far  the 
most  enviable  is — to  be  able  "  to  wipe 
away  all  tears  from  all  eyes."  O  what 
insignificant,  sordid  wretches  are  they, 
however  chance  may  have  loaded  them 
with  wealth,  who  go  to  their  graves,  to 
t  heir  magnificent  mausoleums,  with  hardly 
the  consciousness  of  having  made  one 
poor  honest  heart  happy ! 

But  I  crave  your  pardon,  Madam,  I 
came  to  beg,  not  to  preach. 


No.  CXLII. 
EXTRACT  OF  A  LETTER 

TO  MR.  . 

1794. 
I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for 
your  kind  mention  of  my  interests,  in  a 


letter  which  Mr.  S***  showed  me.  At 
present,  my  situation  in  life  must  be  in  a 
great  measure  stationary,  at  least  for  two 
or  three  years.  The  statement  is  this — 
I  am  on  the  supervisors'  list ;  and  as  we 
come  on  there  by  precedency,  in  two  or 
three  years  I  shall  be  at  the  head  of  that 
list,  and  be  appointed  of  course — then,  a 
Friend  might  be  of  service  to  me  in  get- 
ting me  into  a  place  of  the  kingdom  which 
I  would  like.  A  supervisor's  income  va- 
ries from  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  to 
two  hundred  a-year ;  but  the  business  is 
an  incessant  drudgery,  and  would  be 
nearly  a  complete  bar  to  every  species 
of  literary  pursuit.  The  moment  I  am 
appointed  supervisor  in  the  common  rou- 
tine, I  may  be  nominated  on  the  Col- 
lector's list ;  and  this  is  always  a  business 
purely  of  political  patronage.  A  collec- 
torship  varies  much  from  better  than  two 
hundred  a-year  to  near  a  thousand.  They 
also  come  forward  by  precedency  on  the 
list,  and  have,  besides  a  handsome  income, 
a  life  of  complete  leisure.  A  life  of  lite- 
rary leisure,  with  a  decent  competence, 
is  the  summit  of  my  wishes.  It  would  be 
the  prudish  affectation  of  silly  pride  in 
me,  to  say  that  I  do  not  need,  or  would 
not  be  indebted  to  a  political  friend  ;  at 
the  same  time,  Sir,  I  by  no  means  lay  my 
affairs  before  you  thus,  to  hook  my  de- 
pendent situation  on  your  benevolence 
If,  in  my  progress  in  life,  an  opening 
should  occur  where  the  good  offices  of  a 
gentleman  of  your  public  character  and 
political  consequence  might  bring  me  for- 
ward, I  will  petition  your  goodness  with 
the  same  frankness  and  sincerity  as  I  now 
do  myself  the  honour  to  subscribe  my- 
self, &c. 


No.  CXLIII. 


TO  MRS.  R***** 


DEAR   MADAM, 

I  meant  to  have  called  on  you  yes- 
ternight ;  but  as  I  edged  up  to  your  box- 
door,  the  first  object  which  greeted  my 
view  was  one  of  those  lobster-coated  pup- 
pies, sitting  like  another  dragon,  guarding 
the  Hesperian  fruit.  On  the  conditions 
and  capitulations  you  so  obligingly  offer, 
I  shall  certainly  make  my  weather-beaten 
rustic  phiz  a  part  of  your  box-furniture 


LETTERS. 


183 


on  Tuesday,  when  we  may  arrange  the 
business  of  the  visit. 


Among1  the  profusion  of  idle  compli- 
ments, which  insidious  craft,  or  unmean- 
ing folly,  incessantly  offer  at  your  shrine 
— a  shrine,  how  far  exalted  above  such 
adoration — permit  me,  were  it  but  for 
rarity's  sake,  to  pay  you  the  honest  tri- 
bute of  a  warm  heart  and  an  independent 
mind  ;  and  to  assure  you  that  I  am,  thou 
most  amiable,  and  most  accomplished  of 
thy  sex,  with  the  most  respectful  esteem, 
and  fervent  regard,  thine,  &c. 


No.  CXLIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I  will  wait  on  you,  my  ever-valued 
friend,  but  whether  in  the  morning  I  am 
not  sure.  Sunday  closes  a  period  of  our 
cursed  revenue  business,  and  may  pro- 
bably keep  me  employed  with  my  pen  un- 
til noon.  Fine  employment  for  a  poet's 
pen  !  There  is  a  species  of  the  human 
genus  that  I  call  the  gin-horse  class :  what 
enviable  dogs  they  are !  Round,  and  round, 
and  round  they  go — Mundell's  ox,  that 
drives  his  cotton-mill,  is  their  exact  pro- 
totype— without  an  idea  or  wish  beyond 
their  circle ;  fat,  sleek,  stupid,  patient, 
quiet,  and   contented :  while  here  I  sit, 

altogether  Novemberish,  a  d melange 

of  fretfulness  and  melancholy ;  not  enough 
of  the  one  ^o  rouse  me  to  passion,  nor  of 
the  other  to  repose  me  in  torpor ;  my  soul 
flouncing  and  fluttering  round  her  tene- 
ment, like  a  wild  finch  caught  amid  the 
horrors  of  winter,  and  newly  thrust  into 
a  cage.  Well,  I  am  persuaded  that  it 
was  of  me  the  Hebrew  sage  prophesied, 
when  he  foretold — "  And  behold  on  what- 
soever this  man  doth  set  his  heart,  it  shall 
not  prosper !"  If  my  resentment  is  awak- 
ened, it  is  sure  to  be  where  it  dare  not 
squeak ;  and  if— 


Pray  that  wisdom  and  bliss  be  more 
frequent  visitors  of 

II.  B. 


No.  CXLV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I  have  this  moment  got  the  song  from 
S***,  and  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  he  has 
spoilt  it  a  good  deal.  It  shall  be  a  lesson 
to  me  how  I  lend  him  any  thing  again. 

I  have  sent  you  Werler,  truly  happy  to 
have  any,  the  smallest  opportunity  of 
obliging  you. 

'Tis  true.  Madam,  I  saw  you  once  since 

I  was  at  W ;  and  that  once  froze  the 

very  life-blood  of  my  heart.  Your  re- 
ception of  me  was  such,  that  a  wretch 
meeting  the  eye  of  his  judge,  about  to 
pronounce  the  sentence  of  death  on  him, 
could  only  have  envied  my  feelings  and 
situation.  But  I  hate  the  theme,  and 
never  more  shall  write  or  speak  on  it. 

One  thing  I  shall  proudly  say,  that  I 
can  pay  Mrs. a  higher  tribute  of  es- 
teem, and  appreciate  her  amiable  worth 
more  truly,  than  any  man  whom  I  have 
seen  approach  her. 


No.  CLXVI. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

I  have  often  told  you,  my  dear  friend, 
that  you  had  a  spice  of  caprice  in  your 
composition,  and  you  have  as  often  disa- 
vowed it:  even,  perhaps,  while  your  opi- 
nions were,  at  the  moment,  irrefragably 
proving  it.  Could  any  thing  estrange  me 
from  a  friend  such  as  you  ? — No  !  To- 
morrow I  shall  have  the  honour  of  wait- 
ing on  you. 

Farewell  thou  first  of  friends,  and  most 
accomplished  of  women :  even  with  all 
thy  little  caprices ! 


No.  CXLVII. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

if  A  DAM, 

I  return  your  common-place  book; 
I  have   perused  it  with  much  pleasure, 


1S4 


LETTERS. 


and  would  have  continued  my  criticisms ; 
but  as  it  seems  the  critic  has  forfeited 
your  esteem,  his  strictures  must  lose  their 
value. 

If  it  is  true  that  "  offences  come  only 
from  the  heart,"  before  you  I  am  guilt- 
less. To  admire,  esteem,  and  prize  you, 
as  the  most  accomplished  of  women,  and 
the  first  of  friends — if  these  are  crimes,  I 
am  the  most  offending  thing  alive. 

Tn  a  face  where  I  used  to  meet  the  kind 
complacency  of  friendly  confidence,  now  to 
find  cold  neglect  and  contemptuous  scorn 
— is  a  wrench  that  my  heart  can  ill  bear. 
It  is,  however,  some  kind  of  miserable 
good  luck,  that  while  de  haut-cn-bas  rigour 
may  depress  an  unoffending  wretch  to  the 
ground,  it  has  a  tendency  to  rouse  a  stub- 
born something  in  his  bosom, which,though 
it  cannot  heal  the  wounds  of  his  soul,  is  at 
least  an  opiate  to  blunt  their  poignancy. 

With  the  prbfoundest  respect  for  your 
abilities ;  the  most  sincere  esteem  and  ar- 
dent regard  for  your  gentle  heart  and  ami- 
able manners ;  and  the  most  fervent  wish 
and  prayer  for  your  welfare,  peace,  and 
bliss,  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Madam, 
your  most  devoted,  humble  servant. 


No.  CXLVIII. 

TO  JOHN  SYME,  ESQ. 

You  know  that,  among  other  high  dig- 
nities, you  have  the  honour  to  be  my  su- 
preme court  of  critical  judicature,  from 
which  there  is  no  appeal.  I  enclose  you 
a  song  which  I  composed  since  I  saw  you, 
and  I  am  going  to  give  you  the  history  of 
it.  Do  you  know,  that  among  much  that 
I  admire  in  the  characters  and  manners  of 
those  great  folks  whom  I  have  now  the 
honour  to  call  my  acquaintances,  the 
q*****  Hnnily,  there  is  nothing  charms  me 
more  than  Mr.  O's.  unconcealable  attach- 
ment to  that  incomparable  woman.  Did 
you  ever,  my  dear  Syme,  moot  with  a 
man  who  owed  more  to  the  Divine  Giver 
of  all  good  things  than  Mr.  O.  A  fine 
fortune,  a  pleasing  exterior,  self-evident 
amiable  dispositions,  and  an  ingenuous 
upright  mind,  and  that  informed  too, 
much  beyond  llie  usual  run  of  young  fel- 
lows of  his  rank  and  fortune:   and  to  all 


this,  such  a  woman ! — hut  of  her  I  shall 

say  nothing  at  all,  in  despair  of  saying  any 
thing  adequate.  In  my  song,  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  do  justice  to  what  would  be 
his  feelings,  on  seeing,  in  the  scene  I  have 
drawn,  the  habitation  of  his  Lucy.  As  I 
am  a  good  deal  pleased  with  my  perform- 
ance, I  in  my  first  fervour,  thought  of 

sending  it  to  Mrs.  O ;  but  on  second 

thoughts,  perhaps  what  I  offer  as  the  ho- 
nest incense  of  genuine  respect,  might, 
from  the  well-known  character  of  poverty 
and  poetry,  be  construed  into  some  modi- 
fication or  other  of  that  servility  which 
my  soul  abhors.* 


No.  CXLIX. 
TO  MISS  


MADAM, 

Nothing  short  of  a  kind  of  absolute 
necessity  could  have  made  me  trouble  you 
with  this  letter.  Except  my  ardent  and 
just  esteem  for  your  sense,  taste,  and 
worth,  every  sentiment  arising  in  my 
breast,  as  I  put  pen  to  paper  to  you,  is 
painful.  The  scenes  I  have  passed  with 
the  friend  of  my  soul  and  his  amiable  con- 
nexions !  the  wrench  at  my  heart  to  think 
that  he  is  gone,  for  ever  gone  from  me, 
never  more  to  meet  in  the  wanderings  of 
a  weary  world !  and  the  cutting  reflec- 
tion of  all  that  I  had  most  unfortunately, 
though  most  undeservedly,  lost  the  confi- 
dence of  that  soul  of  worth,  ere  it  took 
its  flight ! 

These,  Madam,  are  sensations  of  no 
ordinary  anguish. — However,  you  also 
may  be  offended  with  some  imputed  im- 
proprieties of  mine;  sensibility  you  know 
I  possess,  and  sincerity  none  will  deny 
me. 

To  oppose  those  prejudices  which  have 
been  raised  against  me,  is  not  the  busi- 
ness of  this  letter.  Indeed  it  is  a  war- 
fare I  know  not  how  to  wage.  The  pow- 
ers of  positive  vice  I  can  in  some  degree 
calculate,  and  against,  direct  malevolence 
I  can  be  on  my  guard ;  but  who  can  esti- 

*  The  song  enclosed  was  that,  given  in  Poems,  page 
110  beginning, 

0  icat  ye  who's  in  yon  town  ?  E. 


LETTERS. 


135 


mate  the  fatuity  of  giddy  caprice,  or  ward 
off  the  unthinking  mischief  of  precipitate 
folly? 

I  have  a  favour  to  request  of  you,  Ma- 
dam ;  and  of  your  sister  Mrs.  — ,  through 
your  means.  You  know  that,  at  the  wish 
of  my  late  friend,  I  made  a  collection  of 
all  my  trifles  in  verse  which  I  had  ever 
written.  There  are  many  of  them  local, 
some  of  them  puerile  and  silly,  and  all  of 
them,  unfit  for  the  public  eye.  As  I  have 
some  little  fame  at  stake,  a  fame  that  I 
trust  may  live  when  the  hate  of  those 
"  who  watcli  for  my  halting,"  and  the 
contumelious  sneer  of  those  whom  acci- 
dent has  made  my  superiors,  will,  with 
themselves,  be  gone  to  the  regions  of  ob- 
livion ;  I  am  uneasy  now  for  the  fate  of 

those  manuscripts. — Will  Mrs. have 

the  goodness  to  destroy  them,  or  return 
them  to  me  ?  As  a  pledge  of  friendship 
they  were  bestowed  ;  and  that  circum- 
stance indeed  was  all  their  merit.  Most 
unhappily  for  me,  that  merit  they  no 
longer  possess;  and    I    hope   that   Mrs. 

'a  jroodness,  which  I  well  know,  and 

ever  will  revere,  will  not  refuse  this  fa- 
vour to  a  man  whom  she  once  held  in 
some  degree  of  estimation. 

With  the  sincerest  esteem,  1  have  the 
honour  to  be,  Madam,  &c. 


No.  CL. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

25th  February,  1794. 

Canst  thou  minister  to  a  mind  dis- 
eased ?  Canst  thou  speak  peace  and  rest 
to  a  soul  tossed  on  a  sea  of  troubles,  with- 
out one  friendly  star  to  guide  her  course, 
and  dreading  that  the  next  surge  may 
overwhelm  her  ?  Canst  thou  give  to  a 
frame,  tremblingly  alive  as  the  tortures  of 
suspense,  the  stability  and  hardihood  of 
the  rock  that  braves  the  blast  ?  If  thou 
canst  not  do  the  least  of  these,  why 
wouldst  thou  disturb  me  in  my  miseries 
with  thy  inquiries  after  me  ? 


For  these  two  months,  I  have  not  been 
able  to  lift  a  pen.     My  constitution  and 


frame  were  ah  origine,  blasted  with  a 
deep  incurable  taint  of  hypochondria, 
which  poisons  my  existence.  Of  late,  a 
number  of  domestic  vexations,  and  some 
pecuniary  share  in  the  ruin  of  these  *  *  * 
*  *  times  ;  losses  which,  though  trifling, 
were  yet  what  I  could  ill  bear,  have  so  ir- 
ritated me,  that  my  feelings  at  times  could 
only  be  envied  by  a  roprobate  spirit  lis- 
tening to  the  sentence  that  dooms  it  to 
perdition. 

Are  you  deep  in  the  language  of  conso- 
lation ?  I  have  exhausted  in  reflection 
every  topic  of  comfort.  A  heart  at  ease 
would  have  been  charmed  with  my  senti- 
ments and  reasonings  ;  but  as  to  myself, 
I  was  like  Judas  Iscariot  preaching  the 
Gospel :  he  might  melt  and  mould  the 
hearts  of  those  around  him,  but  his  own 
kept  its  native  incorrigibility. 

Still  there  are  two  great  pillars  that 
bear  us  up,  amid  the  wreck  of  misfortune 
and  misery.  The  one  is  composed  of  the 
different  modifications  of  a  certain  noble, 
stubborn  something  in  man,  known  by  the 
names  of  courage,  fortitude,  magnanimi- 
ty. The  other  is  made  up  of  those  feel- 
ings and  sentiments,  which,  however  the 
sceptic  may  deny  them,  or  the  enthusiast 
disfigure  them,  are  yet,  I  am  convinced, 
original  and  component  parts  of  the  hu- 
man soul :  those  senses  of  the  mind,  if  I 
may  be  allowed  the  expression,  which 
connect  us  with,  and  link  us  to,  those  aw- 
ful obscure  realities — an  all-powerful,  and 
equally  beneficent  God ;  and  a  world  to 
come,  beyond  death  and  the  grave.  The 
first  gives  the  nerve  of  combat,  while  a 
ray  of  hope  beams  on  the  field  : — the  last 
pours  the  balm  of  comfort  into  the  wounds 
which  time  can  never  cure. 

I  do  not  remember,  my  dear  Cunning- 
ham, that  you  and  I  ever  talked  on  the 
subject  of  religion  at  all.  I  know  some 
who  laugh  at  it,  as  the  trick  of  the  crafty 
few,  to  lead  the  undiscerning  many  ;  or 
at  most  as  an  uncertain  obscurity,  which 
mankind  can  never  know  any  thing  of, 
and  with  which  they  are  fools  if  they  give 
themselves  much  to  do.  Nor  would  I 
quarrel  with  a  man  for  his  irreligion  nny 
more  than  I  would  for  his  want. of  a  mu- 
sical ear.  I  would  regret  that  he  was  shut 
out  from  what,  to  me  and  to  others,  were 
such  superlative  sources  of  enjoyment.  It 
is  in  this  point  of  view,  and  for  this  rea- 
son, that  I  will  deeply  imbue  the  mind  of 
every  child  of  mine  with  religion.     If  my 


186 


LETTERS. 


son  should  happen  to  be  a  man  of  feeling, 
sentiment,  and  taste,  I  shall  thus  add 
largely  to  his  enjoyments.  Let  me  flatter 
myself  that  this  sweet  little  fellow,  who 
is  just  now  running  about  my  desk,  will 
be  a  man  of  a  melting,  ardent,  glowing 
heart ;  and  an  imagination,  delighted  with 
the  painter,  and  rapt  with  the  poet.  Let 
me  figure  him  wandering  out  in  a  sweet 
evening,  to  inhale  the  balmy  gales,  and  en- 
joy the  growing  luxuriance  of  the  spring! 
himself  the  while  in  the  blooming  youth 
of  life.  He  looks  abroad  on  all  nature, 
and  through  nature  up  to  nature's  God. 
His  soul,  by  swift  delighting  degrees,  is 
rapt  above  this  sublunary  sphere,  until  he 
can  be  silent  no  longer,  and  bursts  out  in- 
to the  glorious  enthusiasm  of  Thomson, 

"  These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God. — The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  thee." 

And  so  on  in  all  the  spirit  and  ardour 
of  that  charming  hymn. 

These  are  no  ideal  pleasures ;  they  are 
real  delights :  and  I  ask  what  of  the  de- 
lights among  the  sons  of  men  are  superior, 
not  to  say  equal,  to  them?  And  they 
have  this  precious,  vast  addition,  that  con- 
scious virtue  stamps  them  for  her  own  ; 
and  lays  hold  on  them  to  bring  herself  in- 
to the  presence  of  a  witnessing,  judging, 
and  approving  God. 


No.  CLI. 

TO  MRS.  R****. 

Supposes  himself  to  be  writing  from  the 
Dead  to  the  Living. 


I  dare  say  this  is  the  first  epistle  you 
ever  received  from  this  nether  world.  I 
write  you  from  the  regions  of  Hell,  amid 
the  horrors  of  the  damned.  The  time  and 
manner  of  my  leaving  your  earth  I  do  not 
exactly  know,  as  I  took  my  departure  in 
the  heat  of  a  fever  of  intoxication,  con- 
tracted at  your  too  hospitable  mansion; 
but,  on  my  arrival  here,  I  was  fairly  tried 
and  sentenced  to  endure  the  purgatorial 


tortures  of  this  infernal  confine  for  the 
space  of  ninety-nine  years,  eleven  months, 
and  twenty-nine  days,  and  all  on  account 
of  the  impropriety  of  my  conduct  yester- 
night under  your  roof.  Here  am  I,  laid 
on  a  bed,  of  pitiless  furze,  with  my  aching 
head  reclined  on  a  pillow  of  ever-piercing 
thorn  ;  while  an  infernal  tormentor,  wrink- 
led, and  old,  and  cruel,  his  name  I  think 
is  Recollection,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions, 
forbids  peace  or  rest  to  approach  me,  and 
keeps  anguish  eternally  awake.  Still, 
Madam,  if  I  could  in  any  measure  be  re- 
instated in  the  good  opinion  of  the  fair 
circle  whom  my  conduct  last  night  so 
much  injured,  I  think  it  would  be  an  al- 
leviation to  my  torments.  For  this  rea- 
son I  trouble  you  with  this  letter.  To  the 
men  of  the  company  I  will  make  no  apo- 
logy.— Your  husband,  who  insisted  on  my 
drinking  more  than  I  chose,  has  no  right 
to  blame  me ;  and  the  other  gentlemen 
were  partakers  of  my  guilt.  But  to  you, 
Madam,  I  have  much  to  apologize.  Your 
good  opinion  I  valued  as  one  of  the  great- 
est acquisitions  I  had  made  on  earth,  and 
I  was  truly  a  beast  to  forfeit  it.     There 

was  a  Miss  I ,  too,  a  woman  of  fine 

sense,  gentle  and  unassuming  manners — 

do  make,  on  my  part,  a  miserable  d d 

wretch's  best  apology  to  her.     A  Mrs. 

G ,  a  charming  woman,  did  me  the 

honour  to  be  prejudiced  in  my  favour  ; — 
this  makes  me  hope  that  I  have  not  out- 
raged her  beyond  all  forgiveness. — To  all 
the  other  ladies  please  present  my  hum- 
blest contrition  for  my  conduct,  and  my 
petition  for  their  gracious  pardon.  O,  all 
ye  powers  of  decency  ami  decorum  !  whis- 
per to  them,  that  my  errors,  though  great, 
we're  involuntary — that  an  intoxicated 
man  is  the  vilest  of  beasts — that  it  was 
not  my  nature  to  be  brutal  to  any  one 
— that  to  be  rude  to  a  woman,  when 
in  my  senses,  was  impossible  with  me— 
but— 


Regret  !  Remorse  !  Shame  !  ye  three 
hell-hounds  that  ever  dog  my  steps  and 
bay  at  rny  heels,  spare  me  !  spare  me ! 

Forgive  the  offences,  and  pity  the  per- 
dition of, 

Madam, 
Your  humble  slave 


LETTERS. 


107 


No.  CLII. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 


5th  December,  1795. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

As  I  am  in  a  complete  Decemberish 
humour,  gloomy,  sullen,  stupid,  as  even 
the  deity  of  Dulness  herself  could  wish,  I 
shall  not  drawl  out  a  heavy  letter  with  a 
number  of  heavier  apologies  for  my  late 
silence.  Only  one  I  shall  mention,  be- 
cause I  know  you  will  sympathize  in  it : 
these  four  months,  a  sweet  little  girl,  my 
youngest  child,  has  been  so  ill,  that  every 
day,  a  week  or  less,  threatened  to  termi- 
nate her  existence.  There  had  much 
need  be  many  pleasures  annexed  to  the 
states  of  husband  and  father,  for  God 
knows,  they  have  many  peculiar  cares.  I 
cannot  describe  to  you  the  anxious,  sleep- 
less hours,  these  ties  frequently  give  me. 
I  see  a  train  of  helpless  little  folks ;  me 
and  my  exertions  all  their  stay ;  and  on 
what  a  brittle  thread  does  the  life  of  man 
hang  !  If  I  am  nipt  off  at  the  command  of 
Fate,  even  in  all  the  vigour  of  manhood 
as  I  am — such  things  happen  every  day — 
gracious  God !  what  would  become  of  my 
little  flock  !  'Tis  here  that  I  envy  your 
people  of  fortune  !  A  father  on  his  death- 
bed, taking  an  everlasting  leave  of  his 
children,  has  indeed  wo  enough ;  but  the 
man  of  competent  fortune  leaves  his  sons 
and  daughters  independency  and  friends ; 
while  I — but  I  shall  run  distracted  if  I 
think  any  longer  on  the  subject! 

To  leave  talking  of  the  matter  so  grave- 
ly, I  shall  sing  with  the  old  Scots  ballad — 

"  O  that  I  had  ne'er  been  married 

I  would  never  had  nae  care  ; 
Now  I've  gotten  wife  and  bairns, 

They  cry  crowdie !  evermair. 

Crowdie  !  ance !  crowdie  twice ; 

Crowdie !  three  times  in  a  day : 
An  ye  crowdie  ony  mair, 

Ye'U  crowdie  a'  my  meal  away." 


December  24th. 

We  have  had  a  brilliant  theatre  here 
this  season ;  only,  as  all  other  business 
has,  it  experiences  a  stagnation  of  trade  | 
Aa  2 


from  the  epidemical  complaint  ex  the 
country,  want  of  cash.  I  mention  our  the- 
atre merely  to  lug  in  an  occasional  Ad- 
dress which  I  wrote  for  the  benefit  night 
of  one  of  the  actresses,  and  which  is  as 
follows.* 

25th,  Christmas  Morning. 

This  my  much-loved  friend  is  a  morn- 
ing of  wishes ;  accept  mine — so  heaven 
hear  me  as  they  are  sincere  !  that  bless- 
ings may  attend  your  steps,  and  affliction 
know  you  not  !  in  the  charming  words  of 
my  favourite  author,  The  Man  of  Feeling, 
"  May  the  Great  Spirit  bear  up  the  weight 
of  thy  gray  hairs,  and  blunt  the  arrow  that 
brings  them  rest !" 

Now  that  I  talk  of  authors,  how  do  you 
like  Cowper  ?  Is  not  the  Task  a  glorious 
poem  ?  The  religion  of  the  Task,  bating 
n  few  scraps  of  Calvinistic  divinity,  is  the 
religron  of  God  and  Nature ;  the  religion 
that  exalts,  that  ennobles  man.  Were  not 
you  to  send  me  your  Zeluco,  in  return  for 
mine  ?  Tell  me  how  you  like  my  marks 
and  notes  through  the  book.  I  would  not 
give  a  farthing  for  a  book,  unless  I  were 
at  liberty  to  blot  it  with  my  criticisms. 

I  have  lately  collected,  for  a  friend's 
perusal,  all  my  letters.  I  mean  those 
which  I  first  sketched  in  a  rough  draught, 
and  afterwards  wrote  out  fair.  On  look- 
ing over  some  old  musty  papers,  which, 
from  time  to  time,  I  had  parcelled  by,  as 
trash  that  were  scarce  worth  preserving, 
and  which  yet  at  the  same  time  I  did  not 
care  to  destroy;  I  discovered  many  of 
these  rude  sketches,  and  have  written  and 
am  writing  them  out,  in  a  bound  MS.  for 
my  friend's  library.  As  I  wrote  always 
to  you  the  rhapsody  of  the  moment,  I  can- 
not find  a  single  scroll  to  you,  except  one, 
about  the  commencement  of  our  acquaint- 
ance. If  there  were  any  possible  con- 
veyance, I  would  send  you  a  perusal  of 
my  book. 


No.  CLIII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,  IN  LONDON. 

Dumfries,  20th  December,  1795. 

I  have  been  prodigiously  disappoint- 
ed in  this  London  journey  of  yours.     In 


•  The  Address  is  given  in  p.  104,  of  the  Poems 


188 


LETTERS. 


the  first  place,  when  your  last  to  me 
reached  Dumfries,  I  was  in  the  country, 
and  did  not  return  until  too  late  to  answer 
your  letter  ;  in  the  next  place,  I  thought 
you  \yould  certainly  take  this  route ;  and 
now  I  know  not  what  is  become  of  you, 
or  whether  this  may  reach  you  at  all. — 
God  grant  that  it  may  find  you  and  yours 
in  prospering  health  and  good  spirits  !  Do 
let  me  hear  from  you  the  soonest  possible. 

As  I  hope  to  get  a  frank  from  my  friend 
Captain  Miller,  I  shall  every  leisure  hour, 
take  up  the  pen,  and  gossip  away  what- 
ever comes  first,  prose  or  poesy,  sermon  or 
song.  In  this  last  article  I  have  abound- 
ed of  late.  I  have  often  mentioned  to 
you  a  superb  publication  of  Scottish  songs 
which  is  making  its  appearance  in  your 
great  metropolis,  and  where  I  have  the 
honour  to  preside  over  the  Scottish  verse 
as  no  less  a  personage  than  Peteatindar 
does  over  the  English.  1  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing for  a  favourite  air.  See  the  Song 
entitled,  Lord  Gregory,  Poems,  p.  87. 

December  20th. 

Since  I  began  this  letter,  I  have  been 
appointed  to  act  in  the  capacity  of  super- 
visor here  :  and  I  assure  you,  what  with 
the  load  of  business,  and  what  with  that 
business  being  new  to  me,  I  could  scarcely 
have  commanded  ten  minutes  to  have 
spoken  to  you,  had  you  been  in  town, 
much  less  to  have  written  you  an  epistle. 
This  appointment  is  only  temporary,  and 
during  the  illness  of  the  present  incum- 
bent ;  but  I  look  forward  to  an  early  pe- 
riod when  I  shall  be  appointed  in  full 
form  ;  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished  !  My  political  sins  seem  to  be  for- 
given me. 


This  is  the  season  (New-year's  day  is 
now  my  date)  of  wishing ;  and  mine  are 
most  fervently  offered  up  for  you  !  May 
life  to  you  be  a  positive  blessing  while  it 
lasts  for  your  own  sake ;  and  that  it  may 
yet  be  greatly  prolonged,  is  my  wish  for 
my  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  rest 
of  your  friends  !  What  a  transient  busi- 
ness is  life  !  Very  lately  I  was  a  boy  ; 
but  t'other  day  I  was  a  young  man  -,  and 
I  already  begin  to  feel  the  rigid  fibre  and 
stiffening  joints  of  old  age  coming  fast 
o'er  my  frame.  With  all  my  follies  of 
youth,  and,  I  fear,  a  few  vices  of  man- 
hood, still  I  congratulate  myself  on  hav- 


ing had,  in  early  days,  religion  strongly  im- 
pressed on  my  mind.  I  have  nothing  to 
say  to  any  one  as  to  which  sect  he  be- 
longs to,  or  what  creed  he  believes  ;  but 
I  look  on  the  man,  who  is  firmly  persuad- 
ed of  infinite  Wisdom  and  Goodness  su- 
perintending and  directing  every  circum- 
stance that  can  happen  in  his  lot — I  feli- 
citate such  a  man  as  having  a  solid  foun- 
dation for  his  mental  enjoyment  ;  a  firm 
prop  and  sure  stay  in  the  hour  of  difficul- 
ty, trouble,  and  distress :  and  a  never- 
failing  anchor  of  hope,  when  he  looks  be- 
yond the  grave. 

January  12th 

You  will  have  seen  our  worthy  and  in- 
genious friend  the  Doctor,  long  ere  this. 
I  hope  he  is  well,  and  beg  to  be  remem- 
bered to  him.  I  have  just  been  reading 
over  again,  I  dare  say  for  the  hundred 
and  fiftieth  time,  his  View  of  Society  and 
Manners  ;  and  still  I  read  it  with  delight. 
His  humour  is  perfectly  original — it  is 
neither  the  humour  of  Addison,  nor  Swift, 
nor  Sterne,  nor  of  any  body  but  Dr. 
Moore.  By  the  by,  you  have  deprived 
me  of  Zeluco  ;  remember  that,  when  you 
are  disposed  to  rake  up  the  sins  of  my 
neglect  from  among  the  ashes  of  my  lazi- 
ness. 

He  has  paid  me  a  pretty  compliment, 
by  quoting  me  in  his  last  publication.* 


No.  CLIV. 
TO  MRS.  R*****. 

20th  January,  179G. 

I  cannot  express  my  gratitude  to  you 
for  allowing  me  a  longer  perusal  of  Ana- 
charsis.  In  fact  I  never  met  with  a  book 
that  bewitched  me  so  much ;  and  I,  as  a 
member  of  the  library,  must  warmly  feel 
the  obligation  you  have  laid  us  under. 
Indeed  to  me,  the  obligation  is  stronger 
than  to  any  other  individual  of  our  socie- 
ty ;  as  A?iacharsis  is  an  indispensable  de- 
sideratum to  a  son  of  the  Muses. 

The  health  you  wished  me  in  your 
morning's  card,  is  I  think,  flown  from  mo 
for  ever.  I  have  not  been  able  to  leave 
my  bed  to-day  till  about  an  hour  ago. 

*  Edward. 


LETTERS. 


189 


These  wickedly  unlucky  advertisements 
I  lent  (I  did  wrong)  to  a  friend,  and  I  am 
ill  able  to  go  in  quest  of  him. 

The  Muses  have  not  quite  forsaken  me. 
The  following  detached  stanzas  I  intend 
to  interweave  in  some  disastrous  tale  of  a 
Bhepherd. 


No.    CLV. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

3\st  January,  1796. 

These  many  months  you  have  been 
two  packets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of  ig- 
norance I  have  committed  against  so 
highly  valued  a  friend  I  am  utterly  at  a 
loss  to  guess.  Alas  !  Madam  !  ill  can  I 
afford,  at  this  time,  to  be  deprived  of  any 
of  the  small  remnant  of  my  pleasures.  I 
have  lately  drunk  deep  of  the  cup  of  af- 
fliction. The  autumn  robbed  me  of  my 
only  daughter  and  darling  child,  and  that 
at  a  distance  too,  and  so  rapidly,  as  to  put 
it  out  of  my  power  to  pay  the  last  duties 
to  her.  I  had  scarcely  begun  to  recover 
from  that  shock,  when  I  became  myself 
the  victim  of  a  most  severe  rheumatic  fe- 
ver, and  long  the  die  spun  doubtful ;  un- 
til, after  many  weeks  of  a  sick  bed,  it 
seems  to  have  turned  up  life,  and  I  am  be- 
ginning to  crawl  across  my  room,  and 
once  indeed  have  been  before  my  own 
door  in  the  street. 

When  pleasure  fascinates  the  mental  sight, 

Affliction  purifies  the  visual  ray, 
Religion  hails  the  drear,  the  untried  night. 

And  shuts,  for  ever  shuts,  life's  doubtful  day ! 


No.  CLVI. 

TO  MRS.    R*****, 

Who  had  desired  him  to  go  to  the  Birth- 
Day  Assembly  on  that  day  to  show 
his  loyalty. 

4  th  June,  1796. 

I  am  in  such  miserable  health  as  to  be 
utterly  incapable  of  showing  my  loyalty 
,in  any  way.     Racked  as  T  am  with  rheu- 
matisms, I  meet  every  fare  with  a  greet- 


ing, like  that  of  Balak  to  Balaam — "  Come, 
curse  me  Jacob  ;  and  come,  defy  me 
Israel  !"  So  say  I — come,  curse  me  that 
east  wind  :  and  come,  defy  me  the  north ! 
Would  you  have  me  in  such  circumstan- 
ces, copy  you  out  a  love  song? 


I  may,  perhaps,  see  you  on  Saturday, 
but  I  will  not  be  at  the  ball. — Why  should 
I  !  "  Man  delights  not  me,  nor  woman 
either  ?"  Can  you  supply  me  with  the 
song,  Let  us  all  he  unhappy  together — 
do  if  you  can,  and  oblige  le  pauvre  mise- 
rable. 

R.  B. 


No.  CLVII. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow,  Sea-bathing  Quarters,  1th  July, 

1796. 

MY  DEAR  CUNNINGHAM, 

I  received  yours  here  this  moment, 
and  am  indeed  highly  flattered  with  the 
approbation  of  the  literary  circle  you  men- 
tion ;  a  literary  circle  inferior  to  none  in 
the  two  kingdoms.  Alas  !  my  friend,  I 
fear  the  voice  of  the  bard  will  soon  be 
heard  among  you  no  more  ?  For  these 
eight  or  ten  months  I  have  been  ailing, 
sometimes  bedfast,  and  sometimes  not ; 
but  these  last  three  months,  I  have  been 
tortured  with  an  excruciating  rheumatism, 
which  has  reduced  me  to  nearly  the  last 
stage.  You  actually  would  not  know  me 
if  you  saw  me. — Pale,  emaciated,  and  so 
feeble  as  occasionally  to  need  help  from 
my  chair  !  my  spirits  fled  !  fled  ! — but  I 
can  no  more  on  the  subject — only  the 
medical  folks  tell  me  that  my  last  and 
only  chance  is  bathing,  and  country  quar- 
ters, and  riding. — The  deuce  of  the  mat- 
ter is  this  ;  when  an  exciseman  is  off  duty5> 
his  salary  is  reduced  to  £35  instead  of 
£50.— What  way,  in  the  name  of  thrift, 
shall  I  maintain  myself,  and  keep  a  horse 
in  country  quarters — with  a  wife  and  five 
children  at  home,  on  £35  ?  I  mention 
this,  because  I  had  intended  to  beg  your 
utmost  interest,  and  that  of  all  the  friends 
you  can  muster,  to  move  our  Commission- 
ers of  Excise  to  grant  me  the  full  salary 
— I  dare  say  you  know  them  all  person- 
ally. If  they  do  not  grant  it  me,  I  must 
lay  my  account  with  an  exit  truly  en  ftoete, 


19o  LETTERS, 

if  I  die  not  of  disease,  I  must  perish  with 
hanger. 

I  have  sent  you  one  of  the  songs ;  the 
oti  t  my  memory  does  not  serve  me  with, 
and  I  have  no  copy  here ;  but  I  shall  be 
at  home  soon,  when  I  will  send  it  to  you. 

A-propos  to  being  at  home,  Mrs.  Burns 

threatens  in  a  week  or  two  to  add  one 
more  to  my  paternal  charge,  which,  if  of 
the  right  gender,  I  intend  shall  be  intro- 
duced to  the  world  by  the  respectable 
designation  of  Alexander  Cunningham 
Burns.  My  last  was  James  Glencairn, 
so  you  can  have  no  objection  to  the  com- 
pany of  nobility.     Farewell ! 


No.  CLVIII. 
TO  MRS.  BURNS 

Brow,  Thursday. 

MY  DEAREST  LOVE, 

I  delayed  writing  until  I  could  tell 
you  what  effect  sea-bathing  was  likely  to 
produce.  It  would  be  injustice  to  deny 
that  it  has  eased  my  pains,  and  I  think, 
has  strengthened  me ;  but  my  appetite  is 
still  extremely  bad.  No  flesh  nor  fish 
can  I  swallow ;  porridge  and  milk  are  the 
only  thing  I  can  taste.  I  am  very  happy 
to  hear,  by  Miss  Jess  Lewars,  that  you 
are  all  well.  My  very  best  and  kindest 
compliments  to  her,  and  to  all  the  chil- 
dren. I  will  see  you  on  Sunday.  Your 
affectionate  husband. 

R.  B. 


No.  CLIX. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP 

Brow,  \2th  July, 1196. 


MADAM, 

I  have  written  you  so  often  without 
receiving  any  answer,  that  I  would  not 
trouble  you  again,  but  For  the  circum- 
stances in  which  I  am.  An  illness  which 
has  long  hung  about  me,  in  all  probability 
will  speedily  send  me  beyond  that  bourn 
whence  no  traveller  returns.  Your  friend- 
ship, with  which  for  many  years  you  ho- 
noured me  was  a  friendship  dearest  to 
my  soul.  Your  conversation,  and  espe- 
cially your  correspondence,  were  at  once 
highly  entertaining  and  instructive.  With 
what  pleasure  did  I  use  to  break  up  the 
seal !  The  remembrance  yet  adds  one 
pulse  more  to  my  poor  palpitating  heart 

Farewell !  !  !* 

R.  B. 


*  The  above  is  supposed  to  be  the  last  production  of 
Robert  Burns,  who  died  on  the  21st  of  the  month,  nine 
days  afterwards.  He  had,  however,  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  his  friend's  si- 
lence, and  an  assurance  of  the  continuance  of  her  friend- 
ship to  his  widow  and  children  ;  an  assurance  that  has 
been  amply  fulfilled. 

It  is  probable  that  the  greater  part  of  her  letters  to 
him  were  destroyed  by  our  Bard  about  the  time  that  this 
last  was  written.  lie  did  not  foresee  that  his  own  let- 
ters to  her  were  to  appear  in  print,  nor  conceive  tha 
disappointment  that  will  be  felt,  that  a  few  of  this  ex- 
cellent lady's  have  not  served  to  enrich  and  adorn  the 
collection.    E. 


191 


CORRESPONDENCE 


PREFACE. 


The  remaining  part  of  this  Volume,  consists  principally  of  the  Correspondence 
between  Mr.  Burns  and  Mr.  Thomson,  on  the  subject  of  the  beautiful  Work  pro- 
jected and  executed  by  the  latter,  the  nature  of  which  is  explained  in  the  first  num- 
ber of  the  following  series.*  The  undertaking  of  Mr.  Thomson,  is  one  in  which 
the  Public  may  be  congratulated  in  various  points  of  view  ;  not  merely  as  having 
collected  the  finest  of  the  Scottish  songs  and  airs  of  past  times,  but  as  having  given 
occasion  to  a  number  of  original  songs  of  our  Bard,  which  equal  or  surpass  the  for- 
mer efforts  of  the  pastoral  muses  of  Scotland,  and  which,  if  we  mistake  not,  maybe 
safely  compared  with  the  lyric  poetry  of  any  age  or  country.  The  letters  of  Mr. 
Bums  to  Mr.  Thomson  include  the  songs  he  presented  to  him,  some  of  which  appear 
in  different  stages  of  their  progress ;  and  these  letters  will  be  found  to  exhibit  occa- 
sionally his  notions  of  song-wnting,  and  his  opinions  on  various  subjects  of  taste  and 
criticism.  These  opinions,  it  will  be  observed,  were  called  forth  by  the  observations 
of  his  correspondent,  Mr.  Thomson;  and  without  the  letters  of  this  gentleman,  those 
of  Burns  would  have  been  often  unintelligible.  He  has  therefore  yielded  to  the 
earnest  request  of  the  Trustees  of  the  family  of  the  poet,  to  suffer  them  to  appear 
in  their  natural  order;  and,  independently  of  the  illustration  they  give  to  the  letters 
of  our  Bard,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  their  intrinsic  merit  will  ensure  them  a  re- 
ception from  the  public,  far  beyond  what  Mr.  Thomson's  modesty  would  permit  him 
to  suppose.  The  whole  of  this  correspondence  was  arranged  for  the  press  by  Mr. 
Thomson,  and  has  been  printed  with  little  addition  or  variation. 

To  avoid  increasing  the  bulk  of  the  work  unnecessarily,  we  have  in  general  re- 
ferred the  reader  for  the  Song  to  the  page  in  the  Poems  where  it  occurs  ;  and  have 
given  the  verses  entire,  only  when  they  differ  in  some  respects  from  the  adopt- 
ed set. 


No.  I. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 


Edinburgh,  September,  1792. 


sm, 


For  some  years  past,  I  have  with  a 
friend  or  two,  employed  many  leisure 
hours  in  selecting  and  collating  the  most 


favourite  of  our  national  melodies  for  pub- 
lication. We  have  engaged  Pleyel,  the 
most  agreeable  composer  living,  to  put 
accompaniments  to  these,  and  also  to 
compose  an  instrumental  prelude  and  con- 
clusion to  each  air,  the  better  to  fit  them 
for  concerts,  both  public  and  private. 
To  render  this  work  perfect,  we  are 
desirous  to  have  the  poetry  improved; 
wherever  it  seems  unworthy  of  the  music, 


*  This  work  is  entitled,  "  A  Select  Collection  of  original  Scottish  Airs  for  the  Voice:  to  which  arc  added 
Introductory  and  Concluding  Symphonies  and  Accompaniments  for  the  Piano  Forte  and  Violin  by  Pleyel  aud 
zoluch:  with  select  and  characteristic  Verses,  by  the  most  adumed  Scottish  Poets,"  &x. 


192 


LETTERS. 


and  that  is  so  in  many  instances,  is  allow- 
ed by  every  one  conversant  with  our  mu- 
sical  collections.     The  editors   of  these 
seem  in  general  to  have  depended  on  the 
music  proving  an  excuse  for  the  verses: 
and  hence,  some  charming  melodies  are 
united  to   mere  nonsense  and   doggerel, 
while   others    are    accommodated    with 
rhymes  so  loose  and  indelicate,  as  cannot 
be  sung  in  decent  company.     To  remove 
this   reproach  would  be  an  easy  task   to 
the  author  of  The  Cutter's  Saturday  Nigh  t ; 
and,  for  the  honour  of  Caledonia,  I  would 
fain  hope  he  may  be  induced  to  take  up 
the  pen.     If  so,  we  shall  be  enabled  to 
present  the  public   with  a  collection  infi- 
nitely more  interesting  than  any  that  has 
yet  appeared,  and  acceptable  to  all  per- 
sons of  taste,  whether  they  wish  for  cor- 
rect melodies,   delicate  accompaniments, 
or  characteristic  verses. — We  will  esteem 
your  poetical  assistance  a  particular  fa- 
vour, besides  paying  any  reasonable  price 
you  shall  please  to  demand  for  it.     Profit 
is  quite  a  secondary  consideration  with  us, 
and  we  are  resolved  to  spare  neither  pains 
nor  expense  on  the  publication.     Tell  me 
frankly,  then,  whether  you  will  devote 
your  leisure  to  writing  twenty  or  twenty- 
five  songs,  suited  to  the  particular  melo- 
dies which  I  am  prepared  to   send  you. 
A  few  songs,  exceptionable  only  in  some 
of  their  verses,  I  will  likewise  submit  to 
your  consideration ;    leaving   it  to  you, 
either  to  mend  these,  or  make  new  songs 
in  their  stead.     It  is  superfluous  to  assure 
you  that  I  have  no  intention  to  displace 
any  of  the  sterling  old  songs;  those  only 
will  be  removed,  which  appear  quite  silly, 
or  absolutely  indecent.     Even  these  shall 
all  be  examined  by  Mr.  Burns,  and  if  he 
is  of  opinion  that  any  of  them  are  deserv- 
ing of  the  music,  in  such  cases  no  divorce 
shall  take  place. 

Relying  on  the  letter  accompanying 
this,  to  be  forgiven  for  the  liberty  I  have 
taken  in  addressing  you,  I  am,  with  great 
esteem,  Sir,  your  most  obedient  humble 
servant, 

G.  THOMSON. 


No.  II. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  \6th  September,  1792. 

SIR, 

I  have  just  this  moment  got  your 
letter.     As  the  request  you  make  to  me 


will  positively  add  to  my  enjoyments  in 
complying  with  it,  I  shall  enter  into  your 
undertaking  with  all  the  small  portion  of 
abilities  I  have,  strained  to  their  utmost 
exertion   by  the   impulse  of  enthusiasm. 
Only,  don't  hurry  me  :  "  Deil  tak  the 
hindmost,"   is   by  no   means  the   cri  de 
guerre  of  my  muse.     Will  you,  as  I  am 
inferior  to  none  of  you  in  enthusiastic  at- 
tachment to  the  poetry  and  music  of  old 
Caledonia,  and,  since  you  request  it,  have 
cheerfully  promised  my  mite  of  assistance 
— will  you  let  me  have  a  list  of  your  airs, 
with  the  first  line  of  the  printed  verses 
you  intend  for  them,  that  1  may  have  an 
opportunity  of  suggesting  any  alteration 
that  may  occur  to  me.     You  know  'tis  in 
the  way  of  my  trade  ;  still  leaving  you, 
gentlemen,  the  undoubted  right  of  pub- 
lishers,  to  approve,   or  reject,   at   your 
pleasure,  for  your  own   publication.     A- 
propos !  if  you   are   for  English  verses, 
there  is,  on  my  part,  an  end  of  the  matter. 
Whether  in  the  simplicity  of  the  ballad,  or 
the  pathos  of  the  song,  I  can  only  hope 
to  please  myself  in  being  allowed  at  least 
a  sprinkling  of  our  native  tongue.     En- 
glish  verges,  particularly   the   works   of 
Scotsmen,  that  have  merit,  are  certainly 
very  eligible.     Tweedside — Ah,  the  poor 
shepherd's    mournful  fate — Ah,    Chloris 
could  I  now  but  sit,  &.c.  you  cannot  mend; 
but  such  insipid  stuff  as,   To  Fanny  fair 
could  I  impart,  &c.  usually  set   to   The 
Mill  Mill  O,  is  a  disgrace  to  the  collec- 
tion in  which  it  has  already  appeared,  and 
would  doubly  disgrace   a  collection  that 
will  have  the  very  superior  merit  of  yours. 
But  more  of  this  in  the  farther  prosecu- 
tion of  the  business,  if  I  am  called  on  for 
my  strictures  and   amendments — I  say, 
amendments  :  for  I  will  not  alter  except 
where  I  myself  at    least   think   that   I 
amend. 

As  to  any  remuneration,  you  may  think 
my  songs  either  above  or  below  price ; 
for  they  shall  absolutely  be  the  one  or  the 
other.  In  the  honest  enthusiasm  with 
which  I  embark  in  your  undertaking,  to 
talk  of  money,  wages,  fee,  hire,&c.  would 
be  downright  prostitution  of  soul !  A  proof 
of  each  of  the  songs  that  I  compose  or 
amend,  I  shall  receive  as  a  favour.  In 
the  rustic  phrase  of  the  season,  "  Gude 
speed  the  wark !" 

I  am,  Sir,  your  very  humble  servant, 
R.  BURNS. 

P.  S.  I  have  some  particular  reasons 
for  wishing  my  interference  to  be  known 
as  little  as  possible. 


LETTERS. 


193 


No.  III. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 
Edinburgh,  13th  October,  1792. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  received,  with  much  satisfaction, 
your  pleasant  and  obliging  letter,  and  I 
return  my  warmest  acknowledgments  for 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  you  have  en- 
tered into  our  undertaking.  We  have 
now  no  doubt  of  being  able  to  produce  a 
collection  highly  deserving  of  public  at- 
tention in  all  respects. 

I  agree  with  you  in  thinking  English 
verses  that  have  merit,  very  eligible, 
wherever  new  verses  are  necessary ;  be- 
cause the  English  becomes  every  year 
more  and  more  the  language  of  Scotland; 
but  if  you  mean  that  no  English  verses, 
except  those  by  Scottish  authors,  ought 
to  be  admitted,  I  am  half  inclined  to  differ 
from  you.  I  should  consider  it  unpardon- 
able to  sacrifice  one  good  song  in  the 
Scottish  dialect,  to  make  room  for  Eng- 
lish verses ;  but  if  we  can  select  a  few 
excellent  ones  suited  to  the  unprovided 
or  ill-provided  airs,  would  it  not  be  the 
very  bigotry  of  literary  patriotism  to  re- 
ject such,  merely  because  the  authors 
were  born  south  of  the  Tweed  ?  Our 
sweet  air,  My  Nannie  O,  which  in  the 
collections  is  joined  to  the  poorest  stuff 
that  Allan  Ramsay  ever  wrote,  beginning, 
While  some/or  pleasure  pawn  their  health, 
answers  so  finely  to  Dr.  Percy's  beautiful 
eoncr,  O,  Nancy  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  that 
one  would  think  he  wrote  it  on  purpose 
for  the  air.  However,  it  is  not  at  all  our 
wish  to  confine  you  to  English  verses ; 
you  shall  freely  be  allowed  a  sprinkling  of 
your  native  tongue,  as  you  elegantly  ex- 
press it :  and  moreover,  we  will  patiently 
wait  your  own  time.  One  thing  only  I  beg, 
which  is,  that  however  gay  and  sportive 
the  muse  may  be,  she  may  always  be  de- 
cent. Let  her  not  write  what  beauty  would 
blush  to  speak,  nor  wound  that  charming 
delicacy  which  forms  the  most  precious 
dowry  of  our  daughters.  I  do  not  con- 
ceive the  song  to  be  the  most  proper  ve- 
hicle for  witty  and  brilliant  conceits ; 
simplicity,  I  believe,  should  be  its  pro- 
minent feature  ;  but,  in  some  of  our  songs, 
the  writers  have  confounded  simplicity 
with  coarseness  and  vulgarity  ;  although 
between  the  one  and  the  other,  as  Dr. 
Beattie  well  observes,  there  is  as  great  a 
difference  as  between  a  plain  suit  of  clothes 


and  a  bundle  of  rags.  The  humorous 
ballad,  or  pathetic  complaint,  is  best  suit- 
ed to  our  artless  melodies  ;  and  more  in- 
teresting, indeed,  in  all  songs,  than  the 
most  pointed  wit,  dazzling  descriptions, 
and  llowery  fancies. 

With  these  trite  observations,  I  send 
you  eleven  of  the  songs,  for  which  it  is 
my  wish  to  substitute  others  of  your  wri- 
ting. I  shall  soon  transmit  the  rest,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  a  prospectus  of  the 
whole  collection  :  and  you  may  believe 
we  will  receive  any  hints  that  you  are  so 
kind  as  to  give  for  improving  the  work, 
with  the  greatest  pleasure  and  thankful- 
ness. 

I  remain,  dear  Sir,  &c. 


No.  IV. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

MY    DEAR    SIR, 

Let  me  tell  you,  that  you  are  too 
fastidious  in  your  ideas  of  songs  and  bal- 
lads. I  own  that  your  criticisms  are  just ; 
the  songs  you  specify  in  your  list  have 
all,  but  one,  the  faults  you  remark  in  them ; 
but  who  shall  mend  the  matter  ?  Who 
shall  rise  up  and  say — Go  to,  I  will  make 
a  better  ?  For  instance,  on  reading  over 
the  Lea-rig,  I  immediately  set  about  try- 
ing my  hand  on  it,  and,  after  all,  I  could 
make  nothing  more  of  it  than  the  fol- 
lowing, which,  Heaven  knows  is  poor 
enough : 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star, 

Tells  bughtin  time  is  near  my  jo ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow'd  field. 

Return  sae  dowf  and  weary  O  ; 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks* 

Wi'  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 
I'll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I'd  rove,  and  ne'er  be  eerie  O, 
If  thro'  that  glen  I  gaed  to  thee, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 
Altho'  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wild,f 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  wearie  O, 
I'd  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie  O. 

*  For  "scented  birks,"  in  somo  copies,  "  birken 
buds.'"'    E. 
t  In  the  copy  transmitted  to  Mr  Thomson,  instead 


194 


LETTERS. 


Your  observation  as  to  the  aptitude  of 
Dr.  Percy's  ballad  to  the  air  Nannie  O, 
is  just.  It  is  besides,  perhaps,  the  most 
beautiful  ballad  in  the  English  language. 
But  let  me  remark  to  you,  that,  in  the 
sentiment  and  style  of  our  Scottish  airs, 
there  is  a  pastoral  simplicity,  a  something 
that  one  may  call  the  Doric  style  and  dia- 
lect of  vocal  music,  to  which  a  dash  of 
our  native  tongue  and  manners  is  parti- 
cularly, nay  peculiarly  apposite.  For 
this  reason,  and,  upon  my  honour,  for  this 
reason  alone,  I  am  of  opinion  (but,  as  I 
told  you  before,  my  opinion  is  yours,  freely 
yours,  to  approve,  or  reject,  as  you  please) 
that  my  ballad  of  Nannie  O,  might,  per- 
haps, do  for  one  set  of  verses  to  the  tune. 
Now  don't  let  it  enter  into  your  head,  that 
you  are  under  any  necessity  of  taking  my 
verses.  I  have  long  ago  made  up  my 
mind  as  to  my  own  reputation  in  the  busi- 
ness of  authorship ;  and  have  nothing  to 
be  pleased  or  offended  at,  in  your  adop- 
tion or  rejection  of  my  verses.  Though 
you  should  reject  one  half  of  what  I  give 
you,  I  shall  be  pleased  with  your  adopting 
the  other  half,  and  shall  continue  to  serve 
you  with  the  same  assiduity. 


In  the  printed  copy  of  my  Nannie  O, 
the  name  of  the  river' is  horridly  prosaic. 
I  will  alter  it, 


"  Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows." 

Girvan  is  the  name  of  the  river  that 
suits  the  idea  of  the  stanza  besk,  but  Lu- 
gar is  the  most  agreeable  modulation  of 
syllables. 


of  wild,  was  inserted  wet.  But  in  one  of  the  manu- 
scripts, prohably  written  afterwards,  wet  was  changed 
into  wild  ;  evidently  a  great  improvement.  The  lovers 
might,  meet  on  the  lea-rig,  "  although  the  night  were 
ne'er  so  wild,"  that  is,  although  the  summer-wind  blew, 
the  sky  lowered,  and  the  thunder  murmured  ;  such  cir- 
cumstances might  render  their  meeting  still  more  inte- 
resting. I$ut  if  the  night  were  actually  wet,  why  should 
they  meet  on  the  lea-iig  t  On  a  wet  night  the  imagina- 
tion cannot  contemplate  their  situation  there  with  any 
complacency. — Tibullus,  and,  after  him,  Hammond, 
has  conceived  a  happier  situation  for  lovers  on  a  wet 
night.  Probably  Burns  had  in  his  mind  the  verscof  an 
old  Scottish  Song,  in  which  wet  and  weary  are  natu- 
rally enough  conjoined. 

"  When  my  ploughman  come3  hanic  at  ev'n 

He's  often  wet  and  weary ; 
Cast  off  the  wet,  put  on  the  dry, 

And  gae  to  bed  my  deary." 


I  will  soon  give  you  a  great  many  more 
remarks  on  this  business ;  but  I  have  just 
now  an  opportunity  of  conveying  you  this 
scrawl,  free  of  postage,  an  expense  that 
it  is  ill  able  to  pay  :  so,  with  my  best 
compliments  to  honest  Allan,  Good  be 
wi'  ye,  &c. 

Friday  night. 


Saturday  morning. 

As  I  find  I  have  still  an  hour  to  spare 
this  morning  before  my  conveyance  goes 
away,  I  will  give  you  Nannie  O,  at  length. 
See  Poems,  p.  56. 


Your  remarks  on  Ewe-bughts,  Marion, 
are  just:  still  it  has  obtained  a  place 
among  our  more  classical  Scottish  Songs 
and  what  with  many  beauties  in  its  com- 
position, and  more  prejudices  in  its  fa- 
vour, you  will  not  find  it  easy  to  sup- 
plant it. 


In  my  very  early  years,  when  I  was 
thinking  of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  I 
took  the  following  farewell  of  a  dear  girl. 
It  is  quite  trifling,  and  has  nothing  of  the 
merits  of  Ewe-bughts  ;  but  it  will  fill  up 
this  page.  You  must  know,  that  all  my 
earlier  love-songs  were  the  breathings  of 
ardent  passion .-  and  though  it  might  have 
been  easy  in  after-times  to  have  given 
them  a  polish,  yet  that  polish,  to  me, 
whose  they  were,  and  who  perhaps  alone 
cared  for  them,  would  have  defaced  the 
legend  of  my  heart,  which  was  so  faith- 
fully inscribed  on  them.  Their  uncouth 
simplicity  was,  as  they  say  of  wines,  their 
race. 


Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  35. 

Galla  Water,  and  Auld  Rob  Morris,  I 
think,  will  most  probably  be  the  next  sub- 
ject of  my  musings.  However,  even  on 
my  verses,  speak  out  your  criticisms  with 
equal  frankness.  My  wish  is,  not  to  stand 
aloof,  the  uncomplying  bigot  of  opiniatrete, 
but  cordially  to  join  issue  with  you  in  the 
furtherance  of  the  work. 


LETTERS. 


195 


No.  V. 


MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 


November  8th,  1792. 

If  you  mean,  my  dear  Sir,  that  all  the 
songs  in  your  collection  shall  be  poetry 
of  the  first  merit,  I  am  afraid  you  will  find 
more  difficulty  in  the  undertaking  than  you 
are  aware  of.  There  is  a  peculiar  rhyth- 
mus  in  many  of  our  airs,  and  a  necessity 
of  adapting  syllables  to  the  emphasis,  or 
what  I  would  call  the  feature  notes  of  the 
tune,  that  cramp  the  poet,  and  lay  him 
under  almost  insuperable  difficulties.  For 
instance,  in  the  air,  My  vrife's  a  wanton 
wee  thing,  if  a  few  lines  smooth  and  pretty 
can  be  adapted  to  it,  it  is  all  you  can  ex- 
pect. The  following  were  made  extem- 
pore to  it,  and  though,  on  further  study, 
I  might  give  you  something  more  pro- 
found, yet  it  might  not  suit  the  light-horse 
gallop  of  the  air  so  well  as  this  random 
clink 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE 
THING. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 

See  Poems,  p.  35. 


I  have  just  been  looking  over  the  Col- 
lier's bonnie  Dochter  ;  and  if  the  following 
rhapsody,  which  I  composed  the  other 
day,  on  a  charming  Ayrshire   girl,  Miss 

,  as  she  passed  through  this  place  to 

England,  will  suit  your  taste  better  than 
the  Collier  Lassie,  fall  on  and  welcome. 


O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  85. 


I  have  hitherto  deferred  the  sublimer, 
more  pathetic  airs,  until  more  leisure,  as 
they  will  take,  and  deserve,  a  greater  ef- 
fort. However,  they  are  all  put  into 
your  hands,  as  clay  into  the  hands  of  the 
potter,  to  make  one  vessel  to  honour,  and 
another  to  dishonour.  Farewell,  &c. 
B  b 


No.  VI. 

MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

Inclosing  the  Song  on  Highland  Mary. 
See  Poems,  p.  85. 

14th  November,  1792. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  agree  with  you  that  the  song,  Ka- 
tharine Ogie,  is  very  poor  stuff,  and  un- 
worthy, altogether  unworthy, *of  so  beau- 
tiful an  air.  I  tried  to  mend  it,  but  the 
awkward  sound  Ogie  recurring  so  often 
in  the  rhyme,  spoils  every  attempt  at  in- 
troducing sentiment  into  the  piece.  The 
foregoing  song  pleases  myself;  I  think  it 
is  in  my  happiest  manner ;  you  will  see 
at  first  glance  that  it  suits  the  air.  The 
subject  of  the  song  is  one  of  the  most  in- 
teresting passages  of  my  youthful  days  ; 
and  I  own  that  I  should  be  much  flattered 
to  see  the  verses  set  to  an  air,  which  would 
ensure  celebrity.  Perhaps,  after  all,  'tis 
the  stjll  glowing  prejudice  of  my  heart, 
that  throws  a  borrowed  lustre  over  the 
merits  of  the  composition. 

I  have  partly  taken  your  idea  of  Auld 
Rob  Morris.  I  have  adopted  the  two  first 
verses,  and  am  going  on  with  the  song 
on  a  new  plan,  which  promises  pretty  well. 
I  take  up  one  or  another,  just  as  the  bee 
of  the  moment  buzzes  in  my  bonnet-lug ; 
and  do  you,  sans  ceremonie,  make  what 
use  you  choose  of  the  productions. 
Adieu  !  &c. 


No.  VII. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  November,  1792. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  was  just  going  to  write  to  you  that 
on  meeting  with  your  Nannie  I  had  fallen 
violently  in  love  with  her.  I  thank  you, 
therefore  for  sending  the  charming  rustic 
to  me,  in  the  dress  you  wish  her  to  appear 
before  the  public.  She  does  you  great 
credit,  and  will  soon  be  admitted  into  the 
best  company. 

I  regret  that  your  song  for  the  Lea-rig 
is  so  short ;  the  air  is  easy,  soon  sung, 


19G 


LETTERS. 


and  very  pleasing  ;  so  that,  if  the  singer 
stops  at  the  end  of  two  stanzas,  it  is  a 
pleasure  lost  ere  it  is  well  possessed. 

Although  a  dash  of  our  native  tongue 
and  manners  is  doubtless  peculiarly  con- 
genial and  appropriate  to  our  melodies, 
yet  I  shall  be  able  to  present  a  consider- 
able number  of  the  very  Flowers  of  Eng- 
lish Song,  well  adapted  to  those  melodies, 
which  in  England  at  least  will  be  the 
means  of  recommending  them  to  still 
greater  attention  than  they  have  procured 
there.  But  you  will  observe,  my  plan  is, 
that  every  air  shall,  in  the  first  place,  have 
verses  wholly  by  Scottish  poets  :  and  that 
those  of  English  writers  shall  follow  as 
additional  songs,  for  the  choice  of  the 
singer. 

What  you  say  of  the  Ewe-bughts  is  just; 
I  admire  it  and  never  meant  to  supplant 
it.  All  I  requested  was,  that  you  would 
try  your  hand  on  some  of  the  inferior 
stanzas,  which  are  apparently  no  part  of 
the  original  song  :  but  this  I  do  not  urge, 
because  the  song  is  of  sufficient  length 
though  those  inferior  stanzas  be  omitted, 
as  they  will  be  by  the  singer  of  taste. 
You  must  not  think  I  expect  all  the  songs 
to  be  of  superlative  merit ;  that  were  an 
unreasonable  expectation.  I  am  sensible 
that  no  poet  can  sit  down  doggedly  to  pen 
verses,  and  succeed  well  at  all  times. 

I  am  highly  pleased  with  your  humour- 
ous and  amorous  rhapsody  on  Bonnie  Les- 
lie ;  it  is  a  thousand  times  better  than  the 
Collier  s  Lassie.  "  The  dcil  he  could  na 
scaith  thee,"  &c.  is  an  eccentric  and  hap- 
py thought.  Do  you  not  think,  however, 
that  the  names  of  such  old  heroes  as  Alex- 
ander, sound  rather  queer,  unless  in  pom- 
pous or  mere  burlesque  verse  ?  Instead 
of  the  line  "  And  never  made  another," 
I  would  humbly  suggest,  "  And  ne'er 
made  sicanither;"  and  I  would  fain  have 
you  substitute  some  other  line  for  "  Re- 
turn to  Caledonia,"  in  the  last  verse,  be- 
cause I  think  this  alteration  of  the  ortho- 
graphy, and  of  the  sound  of  Caledonia, 
disfigures  the  word,  and  renders  it  Hudi- 
brastic. 

Of  the  other  song,  J\Iy  wife's  a  winsome 
wee  thing,  I  think  the  first  eight  lines  very 
but,  I  do  not  admire  the  other  eight, 
li'i  ;iuse  four  of  them  are  a  bare  repetition 
of  the  first  verse.  I  have  been  trying  to 
spin  a  stanza,  but  could  make  nothing  bet- 


ter than  the  following  :  do  you  mend  it, 
or,  as  Yorick  did  with  the  love-letter, 

whip  it  up  in  your  own  way. 

O  leeze  me  on  my  wee  thing ; 
My  bonnie  blythsome  wee  thing ; 
Sae  lang's  1  hae  my  wee  thing, 
I'll  think  my  lot  divine. 

Tho'  warld's  care  we  share  o't, 
And  may  see  meickle  mair  o't ; 
Wi'  her  I'll  blithely  bear  it, 
And  ne'er  a  word  repine. 

You  perceive  my  dear  Sir,  I  avail  my- 
self of  the  liberty  which  you  condescend 
to  allow  me,  by  speaking  freely  what  I 
think.  Be  assured  it  is  not  my  disposi- 
tion to  pick  out  the  faults  of  any  poem  or 
picture  I  see :  my  first  and  chief  object  is 
to  discover  and  be  delighted  with  the 
beauties  of  the  piece.  Tf  I  sit  down  to  ex- 
amine critically,  and  at  leisure,  what  per- 
haps you  have  written  in  haste,  I  may 
happen  to  observe  careless  lines,  the  re- 
perusal  of  which  might  lead  you  to  im- 
prove them.  The  wren  will  often  see 
what  has  been  overlooked  by  the  eagle. 
I  remain  yours  faithfully,  &c. 

P.  S.  Your  verses  upon  Highland  Mary 
are  just  come  to  hand  :  they  breathe  the 
genuine  spirit  of  poetry,  and,  like  the  mu- 
sic, will  last  for  ever.  Such  verses  united 
to  such  an  air,  with  the  delicate  harmony 
of  Pleyel  superadded,  might  form  a  treat 
worthy  of  being  presented  to  Apollo  him- 
self. I  have  heard  the  sad  story  of  your 
Mary  :  you  always  seem  inspired  when 
you  write  of  her. 


No.  VIII. 
MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  1st  December,  1792. 

Your  alterations  of  my  Nanme  O  are 
perfectly  right.  So  are  those  of  My 
wife's  a  wanton  wee  thing.  Your  altera- 
tion of  the  second  stanza  is  a  positive  im- 
provement. Now,  my  dear  Sir,  with  the 
freedom  which  characterizes  our  corres- 
pondence, I  must  not,  cannot,  alter  Bon- 
nie Leslie.  You  are  right,  the  word, 
"  Alexander"  makes  the  line  a  little  un- 
eouth,  but  I  think  the  thought  is  pretty. 
Of  Alexander,  beyond  all  other  heroes,  it 


LETTERS. 


197 


may  be  said  in  the  sublime  language  of 
Scripture,  that  "  he  went  forth  conquer- 
ing and  to  conquer." 


"  For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  never  made  anither."    (Such  a  person  as  she  is) 


This  is  in  my  opinion  more  poetical 
than  "  Ne'er  made  sic  anither."  How- 
ever, it  is  immaterial ;  make  it  either  way.* 
"  Caledonie,"  I  agree  with  you,  is  not  so 
good  a  word  as  could  be  wished,  though 
it  is  sanctioned  in  three  or  four  instances 
by  Allan  Ramsay :  but  I  cannot  help  it. 
In  short  that  species  of  stanza  is  the  most 
difficult  that  I  have  ever  tried. 

The  Lea-rig  is  as  follows.  (Here  the 
poet  gives  the  two  first  stanzas,  as  before, 
p.  193,  with  the  following  in  addition.) 

The  hunter  lo'es  the  morning  sun, 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo  : 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen, 

Along  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo : 
Gie  me  the  hour  o'  gloamin  gray, 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery  O, 
To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 


T  am  interrupted. 


Yours,  &c. 


No.  IX. 
MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

Inclosing  Auld  Rob  Morris,  and  Duncan 
Gray.     See  Poems,  p.  86. 

4th  December,  1792. 

The  foregoing  (Auld  Rob  Morris  and 
Duncan  Gray,)  I  submit,  my  dear  Sir,  to 
your  better  judgment.  Acquit  them,  or 
condemn  them  as  seemeth  good  in  your 
sight.  Duncan  Gray  is  that  kind  of  light- 
horse  gallop  of  an  air,  which  precludes 
sentiment.  The  ludicrous  is  its  ruling 
feature. 

*  Mr.  Thomson  has  decided  on  Ne'er  made  sic  ani- 
ther.   E. 


No.   X 


MR.  BURNS   TO  MR.  THOMSON. 


With  Poortith  Cauld  and  Galla  Water. 
See  Poems,  pp.  86,  87. 

January,  1793. 

Many  returns  of  the  season  to  you, 
my  dear  Sir.  How  comes  on  your  pub- 
lication ?  will  these  two  foregoing  be  of 
any  service  to  you  ?  I  should  like  to  know 
what  songs  you  print  to  each  tune  be- 
sides the  verses  to  which  it  is  set.  In 
short,  I  would  wish  to  give  you  my  opi- 
nion on  all  the  poetry  you  publish.  You 
know  it  is  my  trade,  and  a  man  in  the 
way  of  his  trade,  may  suggest  useful  hints, 
that  escape  men  of  much  superior  parts 
and  endowments  in  other  things. 

If  you  meet  with  my  dear  and  much- 
valued  C.  greet  him  in  my  name,  with  the 
compliments  of  the  season. 

Yours,  &c. 


No.  XI. 


MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  January  20,  1793. 

You  make  me  happy  my  dear  Sir,  and 
thousands  will  be  happy  to  see  the  charm- 
ing songs  you  have  sent  me.  Many  mer- 
ry returns  of  the  season  to  you,  and  may 
you  long  continue,  among  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Caledonia,  to  delight  them 
and  to  honour  yourself. 

The  four  last  songs  with  which  you  fa- 
voured me,  viz.  Auld  Rob  Morris,  Dun- 
can Gray,  Galla  Water,  and  Cauld  Kail, 
are  admirable.  Duncan  is  indeed  a  lad  of 
grace,  and  his  humour  will  endear  him  to 
every  body 

The  distracted  lover  in  Auld  Rob,  and 
the  happy  Shepherdess  in  Galla  Water, 
exhibit  an  excellent  contrast :  they  speak 
from  genuine  feeling,  and  powerfully  touch 
the  heart. 

The  number  of  songs  which  I  had  ori- 
ginally in  view  was  limited ;  but  I  now 
resolve  to  include  every  Scotch  air   and 


198 


LETTERS. 


song  worth  singing,  leaving  none  behind 
bat  mere  gleanings,  to  which  the  publish- 
ers of  omnegatherum  are  welcome.  1 
would  rather  be  the  editor  of  a  collection 
from  which  nothing  could  be  taken  away, 
than  of  one  to  which  nothing  could  be 
added.  We  intend  presenting  the  sub- 
scribers with  two  beautiful  stroke  en- 
gravings; the  one  characteristic  of  the 
plaintive,  and  the  otherof  the  lively  songs; 
and  I  have  Dr.  Beattie's  promise  of  an 
essay  upon  the  subject  of  our  national 
music,  if  his  health  will  permit  him  to 
write  it.  As  a  number  of  our  songs  have 
doubtless  been  called  forth  by  particular 
events,  or  by  the  charms  of  peerless  dam- 
sels, there  must  be  many  curious  anec- 
dotes relating  to  them. 

The  late  Mr.  Tytler  of  Woodhouselee, 
I  believe  knew  more  of  this  than  any  body, 
for  he  joined  to  the  pursuits  of  an  anti- 
quary a  taste  for  poetry,  besides  being  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  possessing  an  en- 
thusiasm for  music  beyond  most  of  his 
contemporaries.  He  was  quite  pleased 
with  this  plan  of  mine,  for  I  may  say  it 
has  been  solely  managed  by  me,  and  we 
had  several  long  conversations  about  it 
when  it  was  in  embryo.  If  I  could  sim- 
ply mention  the  name  of  the  heroine  of 
each  song,  and  the  incident  which  occa- 
sioned the  verses,  it  would  be  gratifying. 
Pray,  will  you  send  me  any  information 
of  this  sort,  as  well  with  regard  to  your 
own  songs,  as  the  old  ones ? 

To  all  the  favourite  songs  of  the  plain- 
tive or  pastoral  kind,  will  be  joined  the 
delicate  accompaniments,  &c.  of  Pleyel. 
To  those  of  the  comic  and  humorous  class, 
I  think  accompaniments  scarcely  neces- 
sary ;  they  are  chiefly  fitted  for  the  con- 
viviality of  the  festive  board,  and  a  tune- 
ful voice,  with  a  proper  delivery  of  the 
words,  renders  them  perfect.  Neverthe- 
less, to  these  I  propose  adding  bass  ac- 
companiments, because  then  they  are  fit- 
ted cither  for  singing,  or  for  instrumental 
performance,  when  there  happens  to  be 
no  singer.  I  mean  to  employ  our  right 
trusty  friend  Mr.  Clarke,  to  set  the  bass 
to  these,  which  he  assures  me  he  will  do 
con  aniorc,  and  with  much  greater  atten- 
tion than  he  ever  bestowed  on  any  thing 
of  the  kind.  But  fortius  last  class  of  airs 
T  will  not  attempt  to  find  more  than  one 
set  of  verses. 

That  eccentric  bard,  Peter  Pindar,  has 
started  I  know  not  how  many  difficulties, 


about  writing  for  the  airs  I  sent  to  him, 
because  of  the  peculiarity  of  their  mea- 
sure, and  the  trammels  they  impose  on 
his  flying  Pegasus.  I  subjoin  for  your 
perusal  the  only  one  I  have  yet  got  from 
him,  being  for  the  tine  air  "  Lord  Grego- 
ry." The  Scots  verses  printed  with  that 
air,  are  taken  from  the  middle  of  an  old 
ballad,  called  The  Lass  of  Loch-royati, 
which  I  do  not  admire.  I  have  set  down 
the  air  therefore  as  a  creditor  of  yours. 
Many  of  the  Jacobite  songs  are  replete 
with  wit  and  humour,  might  not  the  best  of 
these  be  included  in  our  volume  of  comic 
songs  ? 


POSTSCRIPT. 
FROM  THE  HON.  A.  ERSKINE. 

Mr.  Thomson  has  been  so  obliging  as 
to  give  me  a  perusal  of  your  songs.  High- 
land Mary  is  most  enchantingly  pathetic, 
and  Duncan  Gray  possesses  native  genu- 
ine humour;  "spak  o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn," 
is  a  line  of  itself  that  should  make  you 
immortal.  I  sometimes  hear  of  you  from 
our  mutual  friend  C.  who  is  a  most  ex- 
cellent fellow,  and  possesses,  above  all 
men  I  know,  the  charm  of  a  most  oblig- 
ing disposition.  You  kindly  promised  me, 
about  a  year  ago,  a  collection  of  your  un- 
published productions,  religious  and  amo- 
rous :  I  know  from  experience  how  irk 
some  it  is  to  copy.  If  you  will  get  any 
trusty  person  in  Dumfries  to  write  them 
over  fair,  I  will  give  Peter  Hill  whatever 
money  he  asks  for  his  trouble,  and  I  cer- 
tainly shall  not  betray  your  confidence. — 
I  am  your  hearty  admirer, 

ANDREW  ERSKINE. 


No.  XII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

26th  January,  1793. 

I  approve  greatly  my  dear  Sir,  of 
your  plans  ;  Dr.  Beattie's  essay  will  of 
itself  be  a  treasure.  On  my  part,  I  mean 
to  draw  up  an  appendix  to  the  Doctor's 
essay,  containing  my  stock  of  anecdotes, 
&c.  of  our  Scots  songs.  All  the  late  Mr. 
Tytler's  anecdotes  I  have  by  me,  taken 


LETTERS. 


199 


down  in  the  course  of  my  acquaintance 
with  him  from  his  own  mouth.  I  am 
such  an  enthusiast,  that,  in  the  course  of 
my  several  peregrinations  through  Scot- 
land, I  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  indivi 
dual  spot  from  which  every  song  took  its 
rise  ;  Lockabcr,  and  the  Braes  of  Iiallen- 
(l/'ii,  excepted.  So  far  as  the  locality, 
either  from  the  title  of  the  air,  or  the 
tenor  of  the  song,  could  he  ascertained,  I 
have  paid  my  devotions  at  the  particular 
shrine  of  every  Scots  muse. 

I  do  not  doubt  but  you  might  make  a 
very  valuable  collection  of  Jacobite  songs ; 
but  would  it  give  no  offence  ?  In  the  mean 
time,  do  not  you  think  that  some  of  them 
particularly  The  sow's  tail  to  Gcordie,  as 
an  air,  with  other  words,  might  be  well 
worth  a  place  in  your  collection  of  lively 
songs  ? 

If  it  were  possible  to  procure  songs  of 
merit  it  would  be  proper  to  have  one  set 
of  Scots  words  to  every  air,  and  that  the 
set  of  words  to  which  the  notes  ought  to 
be  set.  There  is  a  naivete,  a  pastoral 
simplicity  in  a  slight  intermixture  of  Scots 
words  and  phraseology,  which  is  more  in 
unison  (at  least  to  my  taste,  and  I  will 
add  to  every  genuine  Caledonian  taste) 
with  the  simple  pathos,  or  rustic  spright- 
lincss  of  our  native  music,  than  any  Eng- 
lish verses  whatever. 

The  very  name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  an 
acquisition  to  your  work.  His  Gregory 
is  beautiful.  I  have  tried  to  give  you  a 
set  of  stanzas  in  Scots,  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, which  arc  at  your  service.  Not  that 
I  intend  to  enter  the  lists  with  Peter  ; 
that  would  be  presumption  indeed.  My 
song,  though  much  inferior  in  poetic  merit, 
has,  I  think,  more  of  the  ballad  simplicity 
in  it.* 


*  For  Rurns's  words,  sec  Poems,  p.  87. — The  song 
of  Dr.  Walcott,  on  the  same  subject,  is  as  follows  : 

All !  ope,  Lord  Gregory,  thy  door! 

A  midnight  wanderer  sighs  : 
Hard  rush  the  rains,  the  tempests  roar, 

And  lightnings  cleave  the  skies. 

Who  comes  with  wo  at  this  drear  night — 

A  pilgrim  of  the  gloom  t 
If  she  whose  lovT;  did  once  delight, 

My  cot  shall  yield  her  room. 

Alas  !  thou  heard'st  a  pilgrim  mourn, 

That  once  was  prized  by  thee  ; 
Think  of  the  ring  by  yonder  burn 

Thou  gav'st  to  love  and  me- 


My  most  respectful  compliments  to  the 
honourable  gentleman  who  favoured  me 
with  a  postscript  in  your  last.  He  shall 
Jtcar  from  me  and  receive  his  MSS.  soon. 


No.  XIII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 


20th  March,  1793. 


MY  DEAR  SIR, 


The  song  prefixed  is  one  of  my  ju- 
venile works. ■(  I  leave  it  in  your  hands. 
I  do  not  think  it  very  remarkable,  either 
for  its  merits  or  demerits.  It  is  impossible 
(at  least  I  feel  it  so  in  my  stinted  powers) 
to  be  always  original,  entertaining,  and 
witty. 

What  is  become  of  the  list,  &c.  of  your 
songs  ?  I  shall  be  out  of  all  temper  with 
you  by  and  by.  I  have  always  looked 
upon  myself  as  the  prince  of  indolent  cor- 
respondents, and  valued  myself  accor- 
dingly ;  and  I  will  not,  cannot  bear  rival- 
ship  from  you,  nor  any  body  else. 


No.  XIV. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

With  the  first  copy  of  Wandering  Willie. 
See  Poems,  p.  88. 

March,  1793. 

I  leave  it  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  to  de- 
termine whether  the  above,  or  the  old 
Thro'  the  lang  Muir,  be  the  best. 


But  shouldst  thou  not  poor  Marian  know, 

I'll  turn  my  feet  and  part : 
And  think  the  storms  that  round  me  blow, 

Far  kinder  than  thy  heart. 

It  is  but  doing  justice  to  Dr.  Walcott  to  mention,  that 
his  song  is  the  original.  Mr.  Burns  saw  it,  liked  it, 
and  immediately  wrote  the  other  on  the  same  subject, 
which  is  derived  from  an  old  Scottish  ballad  of  uncer- 
tain origin.     E. 

t  Mary  Morison,  Tocms,  p.  87. 


200 


LETTERS. 


No.  XV. 


MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

OPJEJV  THE  DOOR  TO  ME  Oil! 
WITH  ALTERATIONS. 

Oh  '  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  bHow, 
Oh !  open  the  door  to  me,  Oh  !* 

See  Poems,  p.  88. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  song  be 
really  mended. 

No.  XVI. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune—"  Bonnie  Dundee." 

True  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  Swain  o' 

the  Yarrow, 
And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o' 

the  Ayr ; 

See  Poems,  p.  89. 


strictures  upon  every  thing  else  relating 
to  the  work. 

Pleyel  has  lately  sent  me  a  number  of 
the  6ongs,  with  his  symphonies  and  ac- 
companiments added  to  them.  I  wish 
you  were  here,  that  I  might  serve  up  some 
of  them  to  you  with  your  own  verses,  .by 
way  of  dessert  after  dinner.  There  is  so 
much  delightful  fancy  in  the  symphonies, 
and  such  a  delicate  simplicity  in  the  ac- 
companiments—they are  indeed  beyond 
all  praise. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  the  seve- 
ral last  productions  of  your  muse  :  your 
Lord  Gregory,  in  my  estimation,  is  more 
interesting  than  Peter's,  beautiful  as  his 
is  !  Your  Here  awa  Willie  must  undergo 
some  alterations  to  suit  the  air.  Mr. 
Erskine  and  I  have  been  conning  it  over ; 
he  will  suggest  what  is  necessary  to  make 
them  a  fit  match.* 

The  gentleman  I  have  mentioned,  whose 
fine  taste  you  are  no  stranger  to,  is  so 
well  pleased  both  with  the  musical  and 
poetical  part  of  our  work,  that  he  has 
volunteered  his  assistance,  and  has  al- 
ready written  four  songs  for  it,  which, 
by  his  own  desire,  I  send  for  your  pe- 
rusal. 


No.  XVII. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  2d  April,  1793. 

I  will  not  recognize  the  title  you  give 
yourself,  "  the  prince  of  indolent  corres- 
pondents ;"  but  if  the  adjective  were 
taken  away,  I  think  the  title  would  then 
fit  you  exactly.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to 
find  you  can  furnish  anecdotes  with  re- 
spect to  most  of  the  songs :  these  will  be 
a  literary  curiosity. 

I  now  send  you  my  list  of  the  songs 
which  I  believe  will  be  found  nearly  com- 
plete. I  have  put  down  the  first  lines  of 
all  the  English  songs  which  I  propose  giv- 
ing in  addition  to  the  Scotch  verses.  If 
any  others  occur  to  you,  better  adapted 
to  the  character  of  the  airs,  pray  mention 
them,   when  you   favour  me  with  your 

*  This  second  line  was  originally, 

Oflova  it  may  na  be,  0  I 


No.  XVIII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

WHEN  WILD  WAR'S  DEADLY  BLAST  WAS 
BLAWN. 

Air— "  The  Mill  Mill  O." 

When  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 
And  gentle  peace  returning, 

See  Poems,  p.  89. 

*  See  the  altered  copy  of  Wandering  Willie,  p.  88. 
of  the  Poems.  Several  of  the  alterations  seem  to  be  of 
little  importance  in  themselves,  and  were  adopted,  it 
may  be  presumed,  for  the  sake  of  suiting  the  words 
better  to  the  music.  The  Homeric  epithet  for  the  sea, 
darlc-hcaving,  suggested  by  Mr.  Erskine.is  in  itself  more 
beautiful,  as  well  perhaps  as  more  sublime,  than  wild- 
roaring,  which  he  has  retained  ;  but  as  it  is  only  ap- 
plicable to  a  placid  state  of  the  sea,  or  at  most  to  the 
swell  left  on  its  surface  after  the  storm  is  over,  itgivea 
q  picture  of  that  element  not  so  well  adapted  to  the 
ideas  of  eternal  separation,  which  the  fair  mourner  in 
supposed  to  imprecato.  From  the  original  song  of 
Here  awa  Willie,  Burns  has  borrowed  nothing  but  the 
second  line  and  part  of  the  first.  The  superior  excel- 
lence of  this  beautiful  poem,  will,  it  is  hoped,  justify 
the  different  editions  of  it  which  we  have  given.    E. 


LETTERS. 


201 


MEG  O'  THE  MILL. 


Air—'1  O  bonnic  lass  will  you  lie  in  a  barrack." 

O  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  got- 
ten, 

An'  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  got- 
ten? 

See  Poems,  p.  89. 


No.  XIX. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

1th  April,  1793. 

Thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your 
packet.  You  cannot  imagine  how  much 
this  business  of  composing  for  your  publi- 
cation has  added  to  my  enjoyments. 
What  with  my  early  attachment  to  bal- 
lads, your  books,  &c.  ballad-making  is 
now  as  completely  my  hobby-horse,  as 
ever  fortification  was  uncle  Toby's ;  so 
I'll  e'en  canter  it  away  till  I  come  to  the 
limit  of  my  race  (God  grant  that  I  may 
take  the  right  side  of  the  winning  post  !) 
and  then  cheerfully  looking  back  on  the 
honest  folks  with  whom  I  have  been  hap- 
py, I  shall  say  or  sing,  "  Sae  merry  as  we 
a'  hae  been  !"  and  raising  my  last  looks 
to  the  whole  human  race,  the  last  words 
ofthevoiceofCoi/a*shallbe, "  Goodnight 
and  joy  be  wi'  you  a'  !"  So  much  for  my 
past  words :  now  for  a  few  present  re- 
marks, as  they  have  occurred  at  random 
on  looking  over  your  list. 

The  first  lines  of  The  last  time  T  came 
o'er  the  moor,  and  several  other  lines  in  it, 
are  beautiful ;  but  in  my  opinion — pardon 
me  revered  shade  of  Ramsay  !  the  song 
is  unworthy  of  the  divine  air.  I  shall  try 
to  make  or  mend.  For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt 
thou  prove,  is  a  charming  song  !  but  Lo- 
gan hum  and  Logan  braes,  are  sweetly 
susceptible  of  rural  imagery :  I'll  try  that 
likewise,  and  if  I  succeed,  the  other  song 
may  class  among  the  English  ones.  I  re- 
member the  two  last  lines  of  a  verse,  in 
some  of  the  old  songs  of  Logan  Water  (for 
I  know  a  good  many  different  ones)  which 
I  think  pretty. 

*  Bums  here  calls  himself  the  Voice  of  Coila  in  imi- 
tation of  Ossian,  who  denominates  himself  the  Voice 
ofCona.  Sac  merry  an  we  a'  hae  been  ;  and  Goodnight 
end  joy  be  vjV  you  a',  are  the  names  of  two  Scottish 
tunes. 


"  Now  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes." 

My  Patie  is  a  lover  gay,  is  unequal. 
"  His  mind  is  never  muddy,"  is  a  muddy 
expression  indeed. 

"  Then  I'll  resign  and  marry  Pate, 
And  syne  my  cockernony." — 

This  is  surely  far  unworthy  of  Ramsay, 
or  your  book.  My  song,  Rigs  of  Barley, 
to  the  same  tune,  does  not  altogether 
please  me ;  but  if  I  can  mend  it,  and 
thrash  a  few  loose  sentiments  out  of  it,  I 
will  submit  it  to  your  consideration.  The 
Lass  o'  Patie's  Mill  is  one  of  Ramsay's 
best  songs  ;  but  there  is  one  loose  senti- 
ment in  it,  which  my  much  valued  friend 
Mr.  Erskine  will  take  into  his  critical  con- 
sideration.— In  Sir  J.  Sinclair's  Statisti- 
cal volumes,  are  two  claims,  one,  I  think, 
from  Aberdeenshire,  and  the  other  from 
Ayrshire,  for  the  honour  of  this  song. 
The  following  anecdote,  which  I  had  from 
the  present  Sir  William  Cunningham,  of 
Robertland,  who  had  it  of  the  late  John, 
Earl  of  Loudon,  I  can,  on  such  authorities, 
believe. 

Allan  Ramsay  was  residing  at  Loudon- 
castle  with  the  then  Earl,  father  to  Earl 
John  ;  and  one  forenoon,  riding  or  walk- 
ing out  together,  his  Lordship  and  Allan 
passed  a  sweet  romantic  spot  on  Irvine 
water,  still  called  "  Patie's  Mill,"  where 
a  bonnie  lass  was  "tedding  hay,  bare  head- 
ed on  the  green."  My  Lord  observed  to 
Allan,  that  it  would  be  a  fine  theme  for  a 
song.  Ramsay  took  the  hint,  and  linger- 
ing behind,  he  composed  the  first  sketch 
of  it,  which  he  produced  at  dinner. 

One  day  I  heard  Mary  say,  is  a  fine 
song;  but  for  consistency's  sake  alter  the 
name  "  Adonis."  Were  there  ever  such 
banns  published,  as  a  purpose  of  marriage 
between  Adonis  and  Mary  ?  I  agree  with 
you  that  my  song,  There's  nought  but  care 
on  every  hand,  is  much  superior  to  Poor- 
tith  cauld.  The  original  song,  The  Mill 
Mill  O,  though  excellent,  is,  on  account 
of  delicacy,  inadmissible  ;  still  I  like  the 
title,  and  think  a  Scottish  song  would 
suit  the  notes  best ;  and  let  your  chosen 
song,  which  is  very  pretty,  follow,  as  an 
English  set.  The  Banks  of  the  Dee,  is, 
you  know,  literally  Langolee,  to  slow 
time.  The  song  is  well  enough,  but  has 
some  false  imagery  in  it :  for  instance, 

"  And  sweetly  the  nightingale  sunn  from  the  tree.'1 


20-2 


LETTERS. 


In  the  first  place,  the  nightingale  sings 
in  a  low  hush,  but  never  from  a  tree ;  and 
in  the  second  place,  there  never  was  a 
nightingale  seen,  or  heard,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Dee,  or  on  the  banks  of  any  other 
river  in  Scotland.  Exotic  rural  imagery 
is  always  comparatively  flat.  If!  could 
hit  on  another  stanza,  equal  to  The  small 
birds  rejoice,  &c.  I  do  myself  honestly 
avow,  that  I  think  it  a  superior  song.* 
John  Anderson  my  jo — the  song  to  this 
tune  in  Johnson's  Museum,  is  my  compo- 
sition, and  I  think  it  not  my  worst :  if  it 
suit  you,  take  it,  and  welcome.  Your 
collection  of  sentimental  and  pathetic 
sonas,  is,  in  my  opinion,  very  complete  ; 
but  lot  so  your  comic  ones.  Where  are 
Tulatchgorwitti  Lumps  o'  puddin,  Tibbie 
Fowler,  and  several  others,  which,  in  my 
humble  judgment,  are  well  worthy  of  pre- 
servation ?  There  is  also  one  sentimen- 
tal song  of  mine  in  the  Museum,  which 
never  was  known  out  of  the  immediate 
neighbourhood,  until  I  got  it  taken  down 
from  a  country  girl's  singing.  It  is  called 
Craigi churn  Wood;  and  in  the  opinion  of 
Mr.  Clarke,  is  one  of  the  sweetest  Scot- 
tish songs.  He  is  quite  an  enthusiast 
about  it :  and  I  would  take  his  taste  in 
Scottish  music  against  the  taste  of  most 
connoisseurs. 

You  are  quite  right  in  inserting  the  last 
five  in  your  list,  though  they  are  certainly 
Irish.  Shepherds,  J  have  lost  my  love! 
is  to  me  a  heavenly  air — what  would  you 
think  of  a  set  of  Scottish  verses  to  it?  I 
have  made  one  to  it  a  good  while  ago, 
which  I  think  *  *  *  but  in 
its  original  state  is  not  quite  a  lady's  song. 
T  enclose  an  altered,  not  amended  copy 
for  you,  if  you  choose  to  set  the  tune  to 
it,  and  let  the  Irish  verses  follow.f 

Mr.  Erskine's  songs  are  all  pretty,  but 
his  Lone  Vale,  is  divine. 

Yours,  &c. 

Lot  me  know  just  how  you  like  these 
random  hints. 

*  It  will  be  found,  in  the  course  of  this  correspon- 
dence, tli.it  the  Hard  produced  a  second  stanza  of  The 
Chevalier's  Lament  (to  which  he  here  alludes)  worthy 
of  the  first.     E. 

t  Mr.  Thomson,  it  appears,  did  not  approve  of  this 
song,  even  in  its  altered  state.  It  docs  not  appear  in 
i  In-  correspondence  ;  but  it  is  probably  one  to  be  found 
in  his  MS3.  beginning, 

"  Yestreen  I  [rot  a  pint  of  wine, 
A  place  where  body  saw  nu; 


No.  XX 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  April,  1793. 

I  rejoice  to  find,  my  dear  Sir,  that 
ballad-makingcontinues  tobe  your  hobby- 
horse. Great  pity  'twould  be  were  it 
otherwise.  I  hope  you  will  amble  it  away 
for  many  a  year,  and  "  witch  the  world 
with  your  horsemanship." 

I  know  there  are  a  good  many  lively 
songs  of  merit  that  I  have  not  put  down 
in  the  list  sent  you ;  but  I  have  them  all 
in  my  eye.  My  Patie  is  a  lover  gay, 
though  a  little  unequal,  is  a  natural  and 
very  pleasing  song,  and  I  humbly  think 
we  ought  not  to  displace  or  alter  it,  ex- 
cept the  last  stanza.* 


No.  XXI. 
MR.  BURNS   TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

April,  1793. 

I  have  yours,  my  dear  Sir,  this  mo- 
ment. I  shall  answer  it  and  your  former 
letter,  in  my  desultory  way  of  saying 
whatever  comes  uppermost. 

The  business  of  many  of  our  tunes  want- 
ing, at  the  beginning,  what  fiddlers  call 
a  starting-note,  is  often  a  rub  to  us  poor 
rhymers. 

"There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow 
braes, 

That  wander  through  the  blooming  hea- 
ther," 

you  may  alter  to 

"  Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 
Ye  wander,"  &c. 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  of  mine, 
Thegowden  locks  of  Anna." 

It  is  highly  characteristic  of  our  Hard,  but  tho  strain 
of  sentiment  does  not  correspond  with  the  air  to  which 
he  proposes  it  should  be  allied.    E. 

*  The  original  letter  from  Mr.  Thomson  contains 
many  observations  on  the  Scottish  songs,  and  on  the 
manner  of  adapting  the  words  to  the  music,  which,  at 
bis  ili  sire,  are  suppressed.  The  subsequent  letter  of 
Mr.  Hums  refers  to  several  of  these  observations.    E 


LETTERS. 


203 


My  song,  Here  awa,  there  awa,  as 
amended  by  Mr.  Erskine,  I  entirely  ap- 
prove of,  and  return  you.* 

Give  me  leave  to  criticise  your  taste  in 
the  only  thing  in  which  it  is  in  my  opinion 
reprehensible.  You  know  I  ought  to 
know  something  of  my  own  trade.  Of 
pathos,  sentiment,  and  point,  you  are  a 
complete  judge  :  but  there  is  a  quality 
more  necessary  than  either,  in  a  song, 
and  which  is  the  very  essence  of  a  ballad, 
I  mean  simplicity:  now,  if  1  mistake  not, 
this  last  feature  you  are  a  little  apt  to 
sacrifice  to  the  foregoing. 

Ramsay,  as  every  other  poet,  has  not 
been  always  equally  happy  in  his  pieces; 
still  I  cannot  approve  of  taking  such  li- 
berties with  an  author  as  Mr.  W.  pro- 
poses doing  with  The  last  time  I  came  o'er 
the  moor.  Let  a  poet,  if  he  chooses,  take 
up  the  idea  of  another,  and  work  it  into 
a  piece  of  his  own ;  but  to  mangle  the 
works  of  the  poor  bard,  whose  tuneful 
tongue  is  now  mute  for  ever,  in  the  dark 
and  narrow  house;  by  Heaven  'twould 
be  sacrilege !  I  grant  that  Mr.  W.'s  ver- 
sion is  an  improvement :  but  I  know  Mr. 
W.  well,  and  esteem  him  much ;  let  him 
mend  the  song,  as  the  Highlander  mend- 
ed his  gun — he  gave  it  a  new  stock,  a 
new  lock,  and  a  new  barrel. 

I  do  not  by  this  object  to  leaving  out 
improper  stanzas,  where  that  can  be  done 
without  spoiling  the  whole.  One  stanza 
in  The  Lass  of  Patie's  Mill,  must  be  left 
out :  the  song  will  be  nothing  worse  for 
it.  I  am  not  sure  if  we  can  take  the  same 
liberty  with  Corn  rigs  are  bonnie.  Per- 
haps it  might  want  the  last  stanza,  and  be 
the  better  for  it.  Cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen 
you  must  leave  with  me  yet  a  while.  I 
have  vowed  to  have  a  song  to  that  air,  on 
the  lady  whom  I  attempted  to  celebrate 
in  the  verses  Poortith  cauld  and  restless 
love.  At  any  rate  my  other  song,  Green 
grow  the  rashes,  will  never  suit.  That 
song  is  current  in  Scotland  under  the  old 
title,  and  to  the  merry  old  tune  of  that 
name,  which  of  course  would  mar  the  pro- 
gress of  your  song  to  celebrity.  Your 
book  will  be  the  standard  of  Scots  songs 
for  the  future :  let  this  idea  ever  keep 
your  judgment  on  the  alarm. 

I  send  a  song,  on  a  celebrated  toast  in 

*  The  reader  lias  already  ssen  that  Burns  did  not 
finally  adopt  all  of  Mr.  Erskhie'a  alterations.    K. 
Bb2 


this  country,  to  suit  Bonnie  Dundee.     I 
send  you  also  a  ballad  to  the  Mill  Mill  O.* 

The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor,  I 
would  fain  attempt  to  make  a  Scots  song 
for,  and  let  Ramsay's  be  the  English  set. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  soon.  When 
you  go  to  London  on  this  business,  can 
you  come  by  Dumfries  ?  I  have  still  seve- 
ral MS.  Scots  airs  by  me  which  I  have 
picked  up,  mostly  from  the  singing  of 
country  lasses.  They  please  me  vastly ; 
but  your  learned  lugs  would  perhaps  be 
displeased  with  the  very  feature  for  which 
I  like  them.  I  call  them  simple;  you 
would  pronounce  them  silly.  Do  you 
know  a  fine  air  called  Jackie  Hume's  La- 
ment? I  have  a  song  of  considerable  me- 
rit to  that  air.  I'll  enclose  you  both  the 
song  and  tune,'  as  I  had  them  ready  to 
send  to  Johnson's  Museum. f  I  send  you 
likewise,  to  me,  a  very  beautiful  little  air, 
which  T  had  taken  down  from  viva  voce.\ 

Adieu ! 


No.  XXII 
MR.  BURNS  TO    MR.  THOMSON. 


April,  1793. 


MY  DEAR  SIR, 


I  had  scarcely  put  my  last  letter  into 
the  post-office,  when  I  took  up  the  sub- 
ject of  The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor, 
and,  ere  I  slept,  drew  the  outlines  of  the 
foregoing.}  How  far  I  have  succeeded, 
I  leave  on  this,  as  on  every  other  occa- 
sion, to  you  to  decide.  I  own  my  vanity 
is  flattered,  when  you  give  my  songs  a 
place  in  your  elegant  and  superb  work  ; 
but  to  be  of  service  to  the  work  is  my 
first  wish.  As  I  have  often  told  you,  I 
do  not  in  a  single  instance  wish  you,  out 
of  compliment  to  me,  to  insert  any  thing 
of  mine.     One  hint  let  me  give  you — 

*  The  song  to  the  tune  of  Bonnie  Dundee,  is  that 
given  in  the  Poems,  p.  89.  The  ballad  to  the  Mill  Mill 
O,  is  that  beginning, 

"  When  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  blawn." 

t  The  song  here  mentioned  is  that  given  in  the 
Poems,  p.  89.  O  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  pat- 
ten? This  song  is  surely  Mr.  Burns's  own  writing, 
though  he  doej  not  generally  praise  his  own  songs  so 
much. 

Note  by  Mr.  Thomson. 

t  The  air  here  mentioned  is  that  for  which  he  wrote 
the  ballad  of  Bonnie  Jean,  given  in  p.  90  of  the  Poema 
8  See  Toems,  page  145.—  Young  Peggy. 


204 


LETTERS. 


whatever  Mr.  Pleyel  does,  let  him  not 
alter  one  iota  of  the  original  Scottish  airs ; 
I  mean  in  the  song  department;  but  let 
our  national  music  preserve  its  native 
features.  They  are,  I  own,  frequently 
wild  and  irreducible  to  the  more  modern 
rules  ;  but  on  that  very  eccentricity,  per- 
haps, depends  a  great  part  of  their  effect. 


No.  XXIII. 

MR.  THOMSON   TO    MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  26th  April,  1793. 
I  heartily  thank  you,  my  dear  Sir, 
for  your  last  two  letters,  and  the  songs 
which  accompanied  them.  I  am  always 
both  instructed  and  entertained  by  obser- 
vations ;  and  the  frankness  with  which 
you  speak  out  your  mind,  is  to  me  highly 
agreeable.  It  is  very  possible  I  may  not 
have  the  true  idea  of  simplicity  in  com- 
position. I  confess  there  are  several 
songs,  of  Allan  Ramsay's  for  example, 
that  I  think  silly  enough,  which  another 
person,  more  conversant  than  I  have  been 
with  country  people,  would  perhaps  call 
simple  and  natural.  But  the  lowest 
scenes  of  simple  nature  will  not  please 
generally,  if  copied  precisely  as  they  are. 
The  poet,  like  the  painter,  must  select 
what  will  form  an  agreeable  as  well  as  a 
natural  picture.  On  this  subject  it  were 
easy  to  enlarge ;  but  at  present  suffice  it 
to  say,  that  I  consider  simplicity,  rightly 
understood,  as  a  most  essential  quality  in 
composition,  and  the  ground-work  of  beau- 
ty in  all  the  arts.  I  will  gladly  appro- 
priate your  most  interesting  new  ballad, 
When  wild  war's  deadly  blast,  &c.  to  the 
Mill  Mill  O,  as  well  as  the  two  other 
songs  to  their  respective  airs  ;  but  the 
third  and  fourth  lines  of  the  first  verse 
must  undergo  some  little  alteration  in  or- 
der to  suit  the  music.  Pleyel  does  not 
alter  a  single  note  of  the  songs.  That 
would  be  absurd  indeed  !  With  the  airs 
which  he  introduces  into  the  sonatas,  I 
allow  him  to  take  such  liberties  as  he 
pleases ;  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  songs. 


P.  S.  I  wish  you  would  do  as  you  pro- 
posed with  your  Rigs  of  Barley.  If  the 
loose  sentiments  are  threshed  out  of  it,  I 
will  find  an  air  for  it;  but  as  to  this  there 
is  no  hurry. 


No.  XXIV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

June,  1793. 
When  I  tell  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  a 
friend  of  mine,  in  whom  I  am  much  in- 
terested, has  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  these 
accursed  times,  you  will  easily  allow  that  it 
might  unhinge  me  for  doing  any  good 
among  ballads.  My  own  loss,  as  to  pecuni- 
ary matters,  is  trifling ;  but  the  total  ruin 
of  a  much-loved  friend,  is  a  loss  indeed. 
Pardon  my  seeming  inattention  to  your 
last  commands. 

I  cannot  alter  the  disputed  lines  in  the 
Mill  Mill  O*  What  you  think  a  defect 
I  esteem  as  a  positive  beauty ;  so  you  see 
how  doctors  differ.  I  shall  now  with  as 
much  alacrity  as  I  can  muster,  go  on  with 
youc  commands. 

You  know  Frazer,  the  hautboy-player 
in  Edinburgh — he  is  here,  instructing  a 
band  of  music  for  a  fencible  corps  quar- 
tered in  this  country.  Among  many  of 
his  airs  that  please  me,  there  is  one,  well 
known  as  a  reel,  by  the  name  of  The  Qua- 
ker's Wife;  and  which  I  remember  a 
grand  aunt  of  mine  used  to  sing  by  the 
name  of  Liggeram  Cosh,  my  bonnie  wee 
lass.  Mr.  Frazer  plays  it  slow,  and  with 
an  expression  that  quite  charms  me.  I 
became  such  an  enthusiast  about  it,  that  I 
made  a  song  for  it,  which  I  here  subjoin ; 
and  enclose  Frazer's  set  of  the  tune.  If 
they  hit  your  fancy,  they  are  at  your  ser- 
vice ;  if  not,  return  me  the  tune,  and  I  will 
put  it  in  Johnson's  Museum.  I  think  the 
song  is  not  in  my  worst  manner. 

Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill, 
As  the  lambs  before  me  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  90. 

*  The  lines  were  the  third  and  fourth.  See  Poems, 
p.  98. 

"  Wi'  mony  a  sweet  babe  fatherless, 
And  mony  a  widow  mourning." 

As  our  poet  had  maintained  a  long  silonce,  and  the 
first  number  of  Mr.  Thomson's  Musical  Work  was  in 
the  press,  this  gentleman  ventured  by  Mr.  Erskine's 
advice,  to  substitute  for  them  in  that  publication, 

"  And  eyes  again  with  pleasure  beam'd 
That  had  been  blcar'd  with  mourning." 

Though  better  suited  to  the  music,  these  lines  are  infe- 
rior to  the  original.  This  it  the  only  alteration  adopted 
by  Mr.  Thomson,  which  Burns  did  not  approve,  or  at 
least  assent  to. 


LETTERS 

I  should  wish  to  hear  how  this  pleases 
you. 


205 


No.  XXV. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.    THOMSON. 

25th  June,  1793. 

Have  you  ever,  my  dear  Sir,  felt  your 
bosom  ready  to  burst  with  indignation  on 
reading  of  those  mighty  villains  who  di- 
vide kingdom  against  kingdom,  desolate 
provinces,  and  lay  nations  waste,  out  of 
the  wantonness  of  ambition,  or  often  from 
still  more  ignoble  passions  ?  In  a  mood  of 
this  kind  to-day,  I  recollected  the  air  of 
Logan  Water ;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
its  querulous  melody  probably  had  its  ori- 
gin from  the  plaintive  indignation  of  some 
swelling,  suffering  heart,  fired  at  the  ty- 
rannic strides  of  some  public  destroyer ; 
and  overwhelmed  with  private  distress, 
the  consequence  of  a  country's  ruin.  If 
I  have  done  any  thing  at  all  like  justice 
to  my  feelings,  the  following  song,  com- 
posed in  three  quarters  of  an  hour's  me- 
ditation in  my  elbow  chair,  ought  to  have 
some  merit 

O  Logan,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide, 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride ; 
See  Poems,  p.  90 

Do  you  know  the  following  beautiful 
little  fragment  in  Witherspoon's  Collec- 
tion of  Scots  Songs? 

"  O  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa' ;" 

See  Poems,  p.  90. 

This  thought  is  inexpressibly  beautiful : 
and  quite,  so  far  as  I  know,  original.  It 
is  too  short  for  a  song,  else  I  would  for- 
swear you  altogether,  unless  you  gave  it 
a  place.  I  have  often  tried  to  eke  a  stan- 
za to  it,  but  in  vain.  After  balancing 
myself  for  a  musing  five  minutes,  on  the 
hind  legs  of  my  elbow  chair,  I  produced 
the  following. 

The  verses  are  far  inferior  to  the  fore- 
going, I  frankly  confess ;  but  if  worthy  of 
insertion  at  all,  they  might  be  first  in 
place  ;  as  every  poet,  who  knows  any 
thing  of  his  trade,  will  husband  his  best 
thoughts  for  a  concluding  stroke. 


O,  were  my  love  yon  lilach  fair, 
Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring ; 
See  Poems,  p.  90. 


No.  XXVI. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS 

Monday,  1st  July,  1793. 

I  am  extremely  sorry,  my  good  Sir, 
that  any  thing  should  happen  to  unhinge 
you.  The  times  are  terribly  out  of  tune ; 
and  when  harmony  will  be  restored,  Hea- 
ven knows. 

The  first  book  of  songs,  just  published, 
will  be  despatched  to  you  along  with  this. 
Let  me  be  favoured  with  your  opinion  of 
it  frankly  and  freely. 

I  shall  certainly  give  a  place  to  the 
song  you  have  written  for  the  Quaker's 
Wife;  it  is  quite  enchanting.  Pray  will 
you  return  the  list  of  songs  with  such  airs 
added  to  it  as  you  think  ought  to  be  in- 
cluded. The  business  now  rests  entirely 
on  myself,  the  gentlemen  who  originally 
agreed  to  join  the  speculation  having  re- 
quested to  be  off.  No  matter,  a  loser  I 
cannot  be.  The  superior  excellence  of 
the  work  will  create  a  general  demand 
for  it  as  soon  as  it  is  properly  known. 
And  were  the  sale  even  slower  than  it 
promises  to  be,  I  should  be  somewhat 
compensated  for  my  labour,  by  the  plea- 
sure 1  shall  receive  from  the  music.  I 
cannot  express  how  much  I  am  obliged 
to  you  for  the  exquisite  new  songs  you 
are  sending  me ;  but  thanks,  my  friend, 
are  a  poor  return  for  what  you  have  done: 
as  I  shall  be  benefited  by  the  publication, 
you  must  suffer  me  to  enclose  a  small 
mark  of  my  gratitude,*  and  to  repeat  it 
afterwards  when  I  find  it  convenient. 
Do  not  return  it,  for,  by  Heaven,  if  you 
do,  our  correspondence  is  at  an  end :  and 
though  this  would  be  no  loss  to  you,  it 
would  mar  the  publication,  which  under 
your  auspices  cannot  fail  to  be  respecta- 
ble and  interesting. 


Wednesday  Morning. 

I  thank  you  for  your  delicate  additional 
verses  to  the  old  fragment,  and  for  your 

*  Five  rounds. 


206 


LETTERS. 


excel] ent  song  to  Logan  Water;  Thom- 
son's truly  elegant  one  will  follow,  for  the 
English  singer.  Your  apostrophe  to 
statesmen  is  admirable :  but  I  am  not 
sure  if  it  is  quite  suitable  to  the  supposed 
gentle  character  of  the  fair  mourner  who 
speaks  it. 


No.  XXVII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 


July  2(7,  1793. 


MY    DEAR    SIR, 


I  have  just  finished  the  following 
ballad,  and,  as  I  do  think  it  in  my  best 
style,  I  send  it  you.  Mr.  Clarke,  who 
wrote  down  the  air  from  Mrs.  Burns's 
wood-note  wild,  is  very  fond  of  it,  and  has 
given  it  a  celebrity,  by  teaching  it  to  some 
young  ladies  of  the  first  fashion  here.  If 
you  do  not  like  the  air  enough  to  give 
it  a  place  in  your  collection,  please  return 
it.  The  song  you  may  keep,  as  I  remem- 
ber it. 

There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair, 
At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  90  and  91. 

I  have  some  thoughts  of  inserting  in 
your  index,  or  in  my  notes,  the  names  of 
the  fair  ones,  the  themes  of  my  songs,  I 
do  not  mean  the  name  at  full ;  but  dashes 
or  asterisms,  so  as  ingenuity  may  find 
them  out. 

The  heroine  of  the  foregoing  is  Miss 
M.  daughter  to  Mr.  M.  off),  one  of  your 
subscribers.  I  have  not  painted  her  in 
the  rank  which  she  holds  in  life,  but  in 
the  dress  and  character  of  a  cottager. 


No.  XXVIII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

July,  1793. 

1  assure  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you 
truly  hurt  me  with  your  pecuniary  parcel. 
It  degrades  me  in  my  own  eyes.  However 
to  return  it  would  savour  of  affectation  : 
but  as  to  any  more  traffic  of  that  debtor 


and  creditor  kind,  I  swear  by  that  Honour 
which  crowns  the  upright  statue  of  Ro- 
bert Burns's  Integrity — on  the  least 
motion  of  it,  I  will  indignantly  spurn  the 
by-past  transaction,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment commence  entire  stranger  to  you  ! 
Burns's  character  for  generosity  of  sen- 
timent and  independence  of  mind,  will,  I 
trust,  long  out-live  any  of  his  wants  which 
the  cold  unfeeling  ore  can  supply  :  at  least, 
I  will  take  care  that  such  a  character  he 
shall  deserve. 

Thank  you  for  my  copy  of  your  publi- 
cation. Never  did  my  eyes  behold,  in 
any  musical  work,  such  elegance  and  cor- 
rectness. Your  preface,  too,  is  admirably 
written  ;  only  your  partiality  to  me  has 
made  you  say  too  much  :  however,  it  will 
bind  me  down  to  double  every  effort  in 
the  future  progress  of  the  work.  The 
following  are  a  few  remarks  on  the  songs 
in  the  list  you  sent  me.  I  never  copy 
what  I  write  to  you,  so  I  may  be  often 
tautological,  or  perhaps  contradictory. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  is  charming 
as  a  poem,  and  should  be,  and  must  be, 
set  to  the  notes  ;  but,  though  out  of  your 
rule,  the  three  stanzas  beginning, 

"  I  Iiae  seen  the  smiling  o'  fortune  beguiling," 

are  worthy  of  a  place,  were  it  but  to  im- 
mortalize the  author  of  them,  who  is  an 
old  lady  of  my  acquaintance  and  at  this 
moment  living  in  Edinburgh.  She  is  a 
Mrs.  Cockburn  ;  I  forget  of  what  place  ; 
but  from  Roxburghshire.  What  a  charm- 
ing apostrophe  is 

"  O  fickle  fortune,  why  this  cruel  sporting, 
Why,  why  torment  us — poor  sons  of  a  day!" 

The  old  ballad,  I  wish  I  were  where 
Helen  lies,  is  silly  to  contemptibility.* 
My  alteration  of  it  in  Johnson's  is  not 
much  better.  Mr.  Pinkcrton,  in  his  what 
he  calls  ancient  ballads  (many  of  them 
notorious,  though  beautiful  enough,  for- 
geries) has  the  best  set.  It  is  full  of  his 
own  interpolations,  but  no  matter. 

In  my  next  I  will  suggest  to  your  con- 
sideration a  few  songs  which  may  have 

*  There  is  a  copy  of  this  ballad  given  in  the  account 
of  the  Parish  of  Kirkpatrick-Fleeming  (which  contains 
the  tomb  of  fair  Helen  Irvine,)  in  the  Statistics  of  Sir 
John  Sinclair,  vol  xiii.  p.  275,  to  which  tilis  character 
is  certainly  not  applicable. 


LETTERS. 


207 


escaped  your  hurried  notice.  In  the 
mean  time,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you 
now,  as  a  brother  of  the  quill.  You  have 
committed  your  character  and  fame:  which 
will  now  be  tried  for  ages  to  come,  by  the 
illustrious  jury  of  the  Sons  and  Daugh- 
ters of  Taste — all  whom  poesy  can 
please,  or  music  charm. 

Being  a  bard  of  nature,  I  have  some 
pretensions  to  second  sight ;  and  I  am 
warranted  by  the  spirit  to  foretell  and  af- 
firm, that  your  great-grand-child  will  hold 
up  your  volumes,  and  say,  with  honest 
pride,  "  This  so  much  admired  selection 
was  the  work  of  my  ancestor." 


No.  XXIX. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  1st  August,  1793. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your 
last  two  letters,  and  am  happy  to  find  you 
are  quite  pleased  with  the  appearance  of 
the  first  book.  When  you  come  to  hear 
the  songs  sung  and  accompanied,  you  will 
be  charmed  with  them. 

The  bonnie  brucket  Lassie,  certainly  de- 
serves better  verses,  and  I  hope  you  will 
match  her.  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen — 
Let  me  in  this  ae  night,  and  several  of  the 
livelier  airs,  wait  the  muse's  leisure : 
these  are  peculiarly  worthy  of  her  choice 
gifts :  besides,  you'll  notice,  that  in  airs 
of  this  sort,  the  singer  can  always  do 
greater  justice  to  the  poet,  than  in  the 
slower  airs  of  The  Bush  aboon  Traquair, 
Lord  Gregory,  and  the  like ;  for  in  the 
manner  the  latter  are  frequently  sung, 
you  must  be  contented  with  the  sound, 
without  the  sense.  Indeed  both  the  airs 
and  words  are  disguised  by  the  very  slow, 
languid,  psalm-singing  style  in  which  they 
are  too  often  performed,  they  lose  anima- 
tion and  expression  altogether  ;  and  in- 
stead of  speaking  to  the  mind,  or  touching 
the  heart,  they  cloy  upon  the  ear,  and  set 
us  a  yawning  ! 

Your  ballad,  There  was  a  lass  and  she 
was  fair,  is  simple  and  beautiful,  and  shall 
undoubtedly  grace  my  collection. 


No.  XXX. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

MY  DEAR  THOMSON, 

I  hoed  the  pen  for  our  friend  Clarke, 
who  at  present  is  studying  the  music  of 
the  spheres  at  my  elbow.  The  Georgium 
Sidus  he  thinks  is  rather  out  of  tune  ;  so 
until  he  rectify  that  matter,  he  cannot 
stoop  to  terrestrial  affairs. 

He  sends  you  six  of  the  Rondeau  sub- 
jects, and  if  more  are  wanted,  he  says  you 
shall  have  them. 


Confound  your  long  stairs ! 

S.  CLARKE 


No.  XXXI. 

MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON 

August,  1793. 

Your  objection,  my  dear  Sir,  to  the 
passages  in  my  song  of  Logan  Water,  is 
right  in  one  instance,  but  it  is  difficult  to 
mend  it ;  If  I  can,  I  will.  The  other  pas- 
sage you  object  to,  does  not  appear  in  the 
same  light  to  me. 

I  have  tried  my  hand  on  Robin  Adair, 
and  you  will  probably  think,  with  little 
success :  but  it  is  such  a  cursed,  cramp, 
out-of-the-way  measure,  that  I  despair  of 
doing  any  thing  better  to  it. 

PHILLIS  THE  FAIR. 

While  larks  with  little  wing, 
Fann'd  the  pure  air, 

See  Poems,  p.  91. 

So  much  for  namby-pamby.  I  may, 
after  all,  try  my  hand  on  it  in  Scots  verse. 
There  I  always  find  myself  most  at  home. 

I  have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  the  song 
I  meant  for  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen.  If 
it  suits  you  to  insert  it,  I  shall  be  pleased, 
as  the  heroine  is  a  favourite  of  mine ;  if 
not,  I  shall  also  be  pleased ;  because  1 


208 


LETTERS. 


wish,  and  will  be  glad,  to  see  you  act  de- 
cidedly on  the  business.*  'Tis  a  tribute 
as  a  man  of  taste,  and  as  an  editor,  which 
you  owe  yourself. 


No.  XXXII. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 


August,  1793. 


MY  GOOD  SIR, 


I  consider  it  one  of  the  most  agree- 
able circumstances  attending  this  publi- 
cation of  mine,  that  it  has  procured  me 
so  many  of  your  much  valued  epistles. 
Pray  make  my  acknowledgments  to  St. 
Stephen  for  the  tunes  :  tell  him  I  admit 
the  justness  of  his  complaint  on  my  stair- 
case, conveyed  in  his  laconic  postscript 
to  your  ^'cw  d'  esprit,  which  I  perused  more 
than  once,  without  discovering  exactly 
whether  your  discussion  was  music,  as- 
tronomy, or  politics :  though  a  sagacious 
friend,  acquainted  with  the  convivial  ha- 
bits of  the  poet  and  the  musician,  offered 
me  a  bet  of  two  to  one,  you  were  just 
drowning  care  together  ;  that  an  empty 
bowl  was  the  only  thing  that  would  deeply 
affect  you,  and  the  only  matter  you  could 
then  study  how  to  remedy ! 

I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  give  Robin 
Adair  a  Scottish  dress.  Peter  is  furnish- 
ing him  with  an  English  suit  for  a  change, 
and  you  are  well  matched  together.  Ro- 
bin's air  is  excellent,  though  he  certainly 
has  an  out  of  the  way  measure  as  ever 
Poor  Parnassian  wight  was  plagued  with. 
I  wish  you  would  invoke  the  muse  for  a 
single  elegant  stanza  to  be  substituted 
for  the  concluding  objectionable  verses  of 
Down  the  Burn  Davie,  so  that  this  most 
exquisite  song  may  no  longer  be  excluded 
from  good  company. 

Mr.  Allan  has  made  an  inimitable  draw- 
ing from  your  John  JJnderson  my  Jo, 
which  I  am  to  have  engraved  as  a  fron- 
tispiece to  the  humourous  class  of  songs: 
you  will  be  quite  charmed  with  it  I  pro. 
mise  you.  The  old  couple  are  seated  by 
the  fireside.  Mrs.  Anderson,  in  ijreat 
good  humour,  is  clapping  John's  shoul- 
ders,  while  he  smiles,  and  looks  at  her 


*  TIic  song  herewith  sent,  is  that  in  p.  92,  of  the 
Poem 


with  such  glee,  as  to  show  that  he  fully 
recollects  the  pleasant  days  and  mghta 
when  they  were  Jirst  acquent.  The  draw- 
ing would  do  honour  to  the  pencil  of 
Teniers. 


No.  XXXIII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

That  crinkum-crankum  tune  Robin 
Adair,  has  run  so  in  my  head,  and  I  suc- 
ceeded so  ill  in  my  last  attempt,  that  I 
have  ventured  in  this  morning's  walk,  one 
essay  more.  You,  my  dear  Sir,  will  re- 
member an  unfortunate  part  of  our  worthy 
friend  C.'s  story,  which  happened  about 
three  years  ago.  That  struck  my  fancy, 
and  I  endeavoured  to  do  the  idea  justice 
as  follows : 

'  SONG. 

Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore, 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves*  dash- 
ing roar : 

See  Poems,  p.  91. 

By  the  way,  I  have  met  with  a  musical 
Highlander  in  Bredalbane's  Fencibles. 
which  are  quartered  here,  who  assures 
me  that  he  well  remembers  his  mother's 
singing  Gaelic  songs  to  both  Robin  Adair 
and  Gramachree.  They  certainly  have 
more  of  the  Scotch  than  Irish  taste  in 
them. 

This  man  comes  from  the  vicinity  of 
Inverness ;  so  it  could  not  be  any  inter- 
course with  Ireland  that  could  bring  them; 
— except,  what  I  shrewdly  suspect  to  be 
the  case,  the  wandering  minstrels,  har- 
pers, and  pipers,  used  to  go  frequently 
errant  through  the  wilds  both  of  Scotland 
and  Ireland,  and  so  some  favourite  airs 
might  be  common  to  both.  A  case  in 
in  point — They  have  lately  in  Ireland, 
published  an  Irish  air  as  they  say  ;  called 
Caun  du  delish.  The  fact  is,  in  a  publi- 
cation of  Corri's,  a  great  while  ago,  you 
will  find  the  same  air,  called  a  Highland 
one,  with  a  Gaelic  song  set  to  it.  Its 
name  there,  I  think,  is  Oran  Gaoil,  and 
a  fine  air  it  is.  Do  ask  honest  Allan,  or 
the  Rev.  Gaelic  Parson,  about  these 
matters. 


LETTERS. 


209 


No.  XXXIV. 


MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 


August,  1793. 


MY  DEAR  SIR, 


Let  me  in  this  ac  night,  I  will  consider. 
I  am  glad  that  you  are  pleased  with  my 
song,  Had  1  a  cave,  &c,  as  I  liked  it  my- 
self. 

I  walked  out  yesterday  evening  with  a 
volume  of  the  Museum  in  my  hand  ;  when 
turning  up  Allan  Water,  "  What  num- 
bers shall  the  muse  repeat,"  &c.  as  the 
words  appeared  to  me  rather  unworthy 
of  so  fine  an  air,  and  recollecting  that 
it  is  on  your  list,  I  sat  and  raved  under 
the  shade  of  an  old  thorn,  till  I  wrote  one 
to  suit  the  measure.  I  may  be  wrong  ; 
but  I  think  it  not  in  my  worst  style.  You 
must  know,  that  in  Ramsay's  Tea-table, 
where  the  modern  song  first  appeared, 
the  ancient  name  of  the  tune,  Allan  says, 
is  Allan  Water,  or  My  love  Annie's  very 
bonnie.  This  last  has  certainly  been  a 
line  of  the  original  song  ;  so  I  took  up 
the  idea,  and  as  you  will  see,  have  intro- 
duced the  line  in  its  place  which  I  pre- 
sume it  formerly  occupied  ;  though  I  like- 
wise give  you  a  chusing  line,  if  it  should 
not  hit  the*  cut  of  your  fancy. 

By  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove, 
While  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Benleddi,* 
See  Poems,  p.  91. 

Bravo !  say  I :  it  is  a  good  song.  Should 
you  think  so  too  (not  else,)  you  can  set 
the  music  to  it,  and  let  the  other  follow 
as  English  verses. 

Autumn  is  my  propitious  season.  I 
make  more  verses  in  it  than  all  the  year 
else. 

God  bless  you ! 


No.  XXXV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 
Is  Whistle,  and  Til  come  to  you,  my 
lad,  one  of  your  airs ;  I  admire  it  much  ; 

*  A  mountain,  west  of  Strath-Allan,  3,009  feet  high. 
R.  B. 


and  yesterday  I  set  the  following  verses 
to  it.  Urbani,  whom  I  have  met  with 
here,  begged  thorn  of  me,  as  he  admires 
the  air  much  !  but  as  I  understand  that 
he  looks  with  rather  an  evil  eye  on  your 
work,  I  did  not  choose  to  comply.  How- 
ever, if  the  song  does  not  suit  your  taste, 
I  may  possibly  send  it  him.  The  6ct 
of  the  air  which  I  had  in  my  eye  is  in 
Johnson's  Museum. 

O  whistlk,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad,* 
O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad : 
See  Poems,  p.  92. 


Another  favourite  air  of  mine,  is,  The 
muckin  o'  Geordie's  Byre,  when  sung  slow 
with  expression ;  I  have  wished  that  it 
had  had  better  poetry ;  that  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  supply  as  follows  : 

Adown  winding  Nith  I  did  wander,f 
To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they  spring ; 
See  Poems,  p.  92. 

Mr.Clarke  begs  you  to  give  Miss  Phil- 
lis  a  corner  in  your  book,  as  she  is  a  par- 
ticular flame  of  his.  She  is  a  Miss  P.  M. 
sister  to  Bonnie  Jean.  They  are  both  pu- 
pils of  his.  You  shall  hear  from  me  the 
very  first  grist  I  get  from  my  rhyming- 
mill. 


No.  XXXVI. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.    THOMSON. 

August,  1793. 

That  tune,  Could  Kail,  is  such  a  fa- 
vourite of  yours,  that  I  once  more  roved 
out  yesterday  for  a  gloamin-shot  at  the 
muses  ;$  when  the  muse  that  presides  o'er 
the  shores  of  Nith,  or  rather  my  old  in- 

*  In  some  of  the  MSS.  the  four  first  lines  run  thus : 

O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  thee,  my  jo, 
O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  thee,  my  jo ; 
Tho'  father  and  mother,  and  a'  should  say  no, 
O  whistle  and  I'll  tome  to  thee,  my  jo. 

See  also  Letter,  No.  LXXVII. 

t  This  song,  certainly  beautiful,  would  appear  to 
more  advantage  without  the  chorus  ;  as  is  indeed  tho 
case  with  several  other  songs  of  our  author.    E. 

i  Olonmin — twilight ;  probnhly  from  glooming.  A 
beautiful  poetical  word  which  ought  to  be  adopted  in 
England.    A  gloamin-shot,  a  twilight  interview. 


210 


LETTERS. 


spiring,  dearest  nymph,  Coila,  whispered 
me  the  following.  I  have  two  reasons  for 
thinking  that  it  was  my  early,  sweet,  sim- 
ple inspirer  that  was  by  my  elbow, "  smooth 
gliding  without  step,"  and  pouring  the 
song  on  my  glowing  fancy.  In  the  first 
place,  -since  I  left  Coila's  native  haunts, 
not  a  fragment  of  a  poet  has  arisen  to 
cheer  her  solitary  musings,  by  catching 
inspiration  from  her ;  so  I  more  than  sus- 
pect that  she  has  followed  me  hither,  or 
at  least  makes  me  occasional  visits :  se- 
condly, the  last  stanza  of  this  song  I  send 
you,  is  the  very  words  that  Coila  taught 
me  many  years  ago,  and  which  I  set  to  an 
old  Scots  reel  in  Johnson's  Museum. 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast, 
And  pledge  we  ne'er  shall  sunder ; 

See  Poems,  p.  92. 

If  you  think  the  above  will  suit  your 
idea  of  your  favourite  air,  I  shall  be  highly 
pleased.  The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the 
moor,  I  cannot  meddle  with,  as  to  mend- 
ing it ;  and  the  musical  world  have  been 
so  long  accustomed  to  Ramsay's  words, 
that  a  different  song,  though  positively 
superior,  would  not  be  so  well  received. 
I  am  not  fond  of  choruses  to  songs,  so  I 
have  not  made  one  for  the  foregoing. 


No.  XXXVII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

August  1793. 

DAINTY    DAVIE.* 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers, 
To  deck  her  gay,  green  spreading  bow- 
ers; 

See  Poems,  p.  93. 

So  much  for  Davie.  The  chorus,  you 
know,  is  to  the  low  part  of  the  tune.  See 
Clarke's  set  of  it  in  the  Museum. 

N.  B.  In  the  Museum  they  have  drawl- 
ed out  the  tune  to  twelve  lines  of  poetry, 
which  is  ****  nonsense.  Four  lines  of 
song,  and  four  of  chorus,  is  the  way. 

*  Dainty  Davie  is  the  title  of  an  old  Scotch  sons, 
from  which  Hums  has  taken  nothing  but  the  title  and 
the  measure.    K. 


No.  XXXVIII. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  1st  Sept.  1793. 

MT  DEAR  SIR, 

Since  writing  you  last,  I  have  re- 
ceived half  a  dozen  songs,  with  which  I 
am  delighted  beyond  expression.  The 
humour  and  fancy  of  Whistle,  and  I'll 
come  to  you,  my  lad,  will  render  it  nearly 
as  great  a  favourite  as  Duncan  Gray. 
Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast — Adown 
winding  JS"ith,  and  By  Allan  stream,  &c, 
are  full  of  imagination  and  feeling,  and 
sweetly  suit  the  airs  for  which  they  are 
intended.  Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild  dis- 
tant shore,  is  a  striking  and  affecting  com- 
position. Our  friend,  to  whose  story  it 
refers,  read  it  with  a  swelling  heart,  I 
assure  you.  The  union  we  are  now  form- 
ing, I  think,  can  never  be  broken  ;  these 
songs  of  yours  will  descend  with  the  mu- 
sic to  the  latest  posterity,  and  will  be 
fondly  cherished  so  long  as  genius,  taste 
and  sensibility  exist  in  our  island. 

While  the  muse  seems  so  propitious,  I 
think  it  right  to  enclose  a  list  of  all  the 
favours  I  have  to  ask  of  her,  no  fewer 
than  twenty  and  three  !  I  have  burdened 
the  pleasant  Peter  with  as  many  as  it  is 
probable  he  will  attend  to  :  most  of  the 
remaining  airs  would  puzzle  the  English 
poet  not  a  little  ;  they  are  of  that  pecu- 
liar measure  and  rhythm,  that  they  must 
be  familiar  to  him  who  writes  for  them. 


No.  XXXIX. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1793. 

You  may  readily  trust,  my  dear  Sir, 
that  any  exertion  in  my  power  is  heartily 
at  your  service.  But  one  thing  I  must 
hint  to  you  ;  the  very  name  of  Peter  Pin- 
dar is  of  great  service  to  your  publication, 
so  get  a  verse  from  him  now  and  then  ; 
though  I  have  no  objection,  as  well  as  I 
can,  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  business. 

You  know  that  my  pretensions  to  mu- 
sical taste  are  merely  a  few  of  nature's 
instincts,  untaught  and  untutored  by  art. 
For  this  reason,  many  musical  composi- 


LETTERS. 


211 


tions,  particularly  where  much  of  the  me- 
rit lies  in  counterpoint,  however  they  may 
transport  and  ravish  the  ears  of  you  con- 
noisseurs, affect  my  simple  lug  no  other- 
wise than  merely  as  melodious  din.  On 
the  other  hand,  by  way  of  amends,  I  am 
delighted  with  many  little  melodies,  which 
the  learned  musician  despises  as  silly  and 
insipid.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  old 
air  Hey  tuttic  taittie  may  rank  among  this 
numher  :  but  well  I  know  that,  with  Fra- 
zcr's  hautboy,  it  has  often  rilled  my  eyes 
with  tears.  There  is  a  tradition,  which 
1  have  met  with  in  many  places  of  Scot- 
land, that  it  was  Robert  Bruce's  march 
at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn.  This 
thought,  in  my  solitary  wanderings,  warm- 
ed me  to  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm  on  the 
theme  of  Liberty  and  Independence,  which 
I  threw  into  a  kind  of  Scottish  ode,  fitted 
to  the  air,  that  one  might  suppose  to  be 
the  gallant  Royal  Scot's  address  to  his 
heroic  followers  on  that  eventful  morn- 
ing.* 

So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of 
truth  and  Liberty,  as  He  did  that  day ! — 
Amen. 

P.  S.  I  showed  the  air  to  Urbani,  who 
was  highly  pleased  with  it,  and  begged 
me  to  make  soft  verses  for  it ;  but  I  had 
no  idea  of  giving  myself  any  trouble  on 
the  subject,  till  the  accidental  recollection 
of  that  glorious  struggle  for  freedom,  as- 
sociated with  the  glowing  ideas  of  some 
other  struggles  of  the  same  nature,  not 
quite  so  ancient,  roused  my  rhyming  ma- 
nia. Clarke's  set  of  the  tune,  with  his 
bass,  you  will  find  in  the  Museum ;  though 
I  am  afraid  that  the  air  is  not  what  will 
entitle  it  to  a  place  in  your  elegant  selec- 
tion. 


No.  XL. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

I  dare  say,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you  will 
begin  to  think  my  correspondence  is  per- 
secution. No  matter,  I  can't  help  it ;  a 
ballad  is  my  hobby-liorsc  ;  which  though 
otherwise  a  simple  sort  of  harmless  idioti- 


*   Hero  followed  Brucc'e  address  B3  Riven  in  the 
Poems,  p.  81. 

This  noble  strain  was  conceived  hy  our  poet  during 
a  storm  among  the  wild3  ofGlen-Ken  in  Galloway. 
(J  C 


cal  beast  enough,  has  yet  this  blessed 
headstrong  property,  that  when  once  it 
lias  fairly  made  off  with  a  hapless  wight, 
it  gets  so  enamoured  with  the  tinkle-gin- 
gle,  tinkle-gingle,  of  its  own  bells,  that  it 
is  sure  to  run  poor  pilgarlic,  the  bedlam- 
jockey,  quite  beyond  any  useful  point  or 
post  in  the  common  race  of  man. 

The  following  song  I  have  composed 
for  Oran  Gaoil,  the  Highland  air  that  you 
tell  me  in  your  last,  you  have  resolved  to 
give  a  place  to  in  your  book.  J  have  this 
moment  finished  the  song,  so  you  have  it 
glowing  from  the  mint.  If  it  suit  you, 
well ! — if  not,  'tis  also  well ! 


Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive ; 
Thou  gocst,  thou  darling  of  my  heart ! 

See  Poems,  p.  93. 


No.  XLI. 

MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  5th  September,  1793. 

I  believe  it  is  generally  allowed  that 
the  greatest  modesty  is  the  sure  attend- 
ant of  the  greatest  merit.  While  you  are 
sending  me  verses  that  even  Shakspeare 
might  be  proud  to  own,  you  speak  of  them 
as  if  they  were  ordinary  productions  ! 
Your  heroic  ode  is  to  me  the  noblest  com- 
position of  the  kind  in  the  Scottish  lan- 
guage. I  happened  to  dine  yesterday 
with  a  party  of  our  friends,  to  whom  I 
read  it.  They  were  all  charmed  with  it; 
intreated  me  to  find  out  a  suitable  air 
for  it,  and  reprobated  the  idea  of  giving 
it  a  tune  so  totally  devoid  of  interest  or 
grandeur  as  Hey  tuttie  taittie.  Assuredly 
your  partiality  for  this  tune  must  arise 
from  the  ideas  associated  in  your  mind  by 
the  tradition  concerning  it ;  for  T  never 
heard  any  person,  and  I  have  conversed 
again  and  again,  with  the  greatest  enthu- 
siasts for  Scottish  airs,  I  say  I  never 
heard  any  one  speak  of  it  as  worthy  of 
notice. 

I  have  been  running  over  the  whole 
hundred  airs,  of  which  I  latch/-  sent  you 
the  list;  and  I  think  Lewie  Gordon,  is 
most  happily  adapted  to  your  ode  :  at  least 
with  a  very  slight  variation  of  t lie  fourth 


212  LETTERS. 

Jine,  which  I  shall  presently  submit  to 
you.  There  is  in  Lewie  Gordon  more  of 
the  grand  than  the  plaintive,  particularly 
when  it  is  sung  with  a  degree  of  spirit 
which  your  words  would  oblige  the  singer 
to  give  it.  I  would  have  no  scruple  about 
substituting  your  ode  in  the  room  of  Lewie 
Gordon,  which  has  neither  the  interest, 
the  grandeur,  nor  the  poetry  that  cha- 
racterize your  verses.  Now  the  varia- 
tion I  have  to  suggest  upon  the  last  line 
of  each  verse,  the  only  line  too  short  for 
the  air,  is  as  follows  : 

Verse  1st,  Or  to  glorious  victorie. 

2<i,  Chains — chains  and  slavcrie. 
3d,  Let  him,  let  him  turn  and  flie. 
4th,  Let  him  bravely  follow  mo. 
5th,  But  they  shall,  they  shall  be  free. 
Cth,  Let  us,  let  us  do  or  die ! 

If  you  connect  each  line  with  its  own 
verse,  I  do  not  think  you  will  find  that 
either  the  sentiment  or  the  expression 
loses  any  of  its  energy.  The  only  line 
which  I  dislike  in  the  whole  of  the  song 
is, "  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed."  Would 
not  another  word  be  preferable  to  welcome? 
In  your  next  I  will  expect  to  be  informed 
whether  you  agree  to  what  I  have  pro- 
posed. The  little  alterations  I  submit 
with  the  greatest  deference. 

The  beauty  of  the  verses  you  have  made 
for  Oran  Gaoil  will  ensure  celebrity  to 
the  air. 


No.  XLII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

I  have  received  your  list,  my  dear  Sir, 
and  here  go  my  observations  on  it.* 

Down  the  burn  Davie.  I  have  this  mo- 
ment tried  an  alteration,  leaving  out  the 
last  half  of  the  third  stanza,  and  the  first 
half  of  the  last  stanza,  thus: 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way 

And  thro'  the  flowery  dale  ; 
His  cbeek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  ay  the  tale. 

*  Mr.  Thomson's  list  of  songs  for  his  publication. 
In  his  remarks,  the  bard  prorceds  in  order,  and  goes 
through  the  whole;  but  on  many  of  them  he  merely  sig- 
nify i  his  approbation".  All  his  remarks  of  any  impor- 
tance are  presented  to  Ihc  reader. 


With  "  Mary,  when  shall  we  return, 

Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ?" 
Quoth  Mary,  "  Love,  I  like  the  burn, 

And  ay  shall  follow  you."* 

Thro'  the  wood  Laddie — I  am  decidedly 
of  opinion  that  both  in  this,  and  There'll 
never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,  the 
second  or  high  part  of  the  tune,  being  a  re- 
petition of  the  first  part  an  octave  higher, 
is  only  for  instrumental  music,  one  would 
be  much  better  omitted  in  singing. 

Cowden-knowes.  Remember  in  your 
index  that  the  song  in  pure  English  to  this 
tune,  beginning, 

1  When  summer  comes  the  swains  on  Tweed.* 

is  the  production  of  Crawford.      Robert 
was  his  Christian  name. 

Laddie  lie  near  me,  must  lie  by  me  for 
some  time.  I  do  not  know  the  air  ;  and 
until  I  am  complete  master  of  a  tune,  in 
my  own  singing  (such  as  it  is,)  I  can  never 
compose  for  it.  My  way  is  :  I  consider 
the  poetic  sentiment  correspondent  to  my 
idea  of  the  musical  expression  ;  then 
choose  my  theme  ;  begin  one  stanza  ; 
when  that  is  composed,  which  is  generally 
the  most  difficult  part  of  the  business,  I 
walk  out,  sit  down  now  and  then,  look  out 
for  objects  in  nature  around  me  that  are 
in  unison  and  harmony  with  the  cogita- 
tions of  my  fancy,  and  workings  of  my 
bosom ;  humming  every  now  and  then  the 
air,  with  the  verses  I  have  framed.  When 
I  feel  my  muse  beginning  to  jade,  I  retire 
to  the  solitary  fire  side  of  my  study,  and 
there  commit  my  effusions  to  paper ; 
swinging  at  intervals  on  the  hind  legs  of 
my  elbow  chair,  by  way  of  calling  forth 
my  own  critical  strictures,  as  my  pen  goes 
on.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  is  almost 
invariably  my  way. 

What  cursed  egotism  ! 

Gill  Morice,  I  am  for  leaving  out.  It 
is  a  plaguy  length ;  the  air  itself  is  never 
sung  ;  and  its  place  can  well  be  supplied 
by  one  or  two  songs  for  fine  airs  that  are 
not  in  your  list.  For  instance,  Cragie- 
burn-wood  and  Roi/s  Wife.  The  first, 
beside  its  intrinsic  rrrerit,  has  novelty; 
and  the  last  has  high  merit,  as  well  as 

*  This  alteration  Mr.  Thomson  has  adopted  (or  at 
least  intended  to  adopt,)  instead  of  the  last  stanza  of 
the  original  song,  which  is  objectionable,  in  point  of 
delicacy.    E.     . 


LETTERS. 


213 


great  celebrity.  I  have  the  original  words 
of  a  song  for  the  last  air,  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  lady  who  composed  it ;  and 
they  are  superior  to  any  edition  of  the 
6ong  which  the  public  has  yet  seen.* 

Highland  Laddie.  The  old  set  will 
please  a  mere  Scotch  ear  best ;  and  the 
new  an  Italianized  one.  There  is  a  third, 
and  what  Oswald  calls  the  old  Highland 
Laddie,  which  pleases  more  than  either 
of  them.  It  is  sometimes  called  Ginglan 
Johnnie ;  it  being  the  air  of  an  old  hu- 
morous tawdry  song  of  that  name.  You 
will  find  it  in  the  Museum,  /  hae  been  at 
Crookieden,  Sic.  I  would  advise  you  in 
this  musical  quandary,  to  offer  up  your 
prayers  to  the  muses  for  inspiring  direc- 
tion ;  and  in  the  mean  time,  waiting  for 
this  direction  bestow  a  libation  to  Bacchus ; 
and  there  is  not  a  doubt  but  you  will  hit 
on  a  judicious  choice.     Probatum  Est. 

Auld  Sir  Simon,  I  must  beg  you  to  leave 
out,  and  put  in  its  place  The  Quaker's 
Wife. 

Blithe  hae  I  been  o'er  the  hill,  is  one  of 
the  finest  songs  ever  I  made  in  my  life  ; 
and  besides,  is  composed  on  a  young  lady, 
positively  the  most  beautiful,  lovely  wo- 
man in  the  world.  As  I  purpose  giving 
you  the  names  and  designations  of  all  my 
heroines,  to  appear  in  some  future  edition 
of  your  work,  perhaps  half  a  century 
hence,  you  must  certainly  include  The 
bonniest  lass  in  a'  the  war  Id  in  your  col- 
lection. 

Daintie  Davie,  I  have  heard  sung,  nine- 
teen thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  times,  and  always  with  the  chorus 
to  the  low  part  of  the  tune  ;  and  nothing 
has  surprised  me  so  much  as  your  opinion 
on  this  subject.  If  it  will  not  suit  as  I 
proposed,  we  will  lay  two  of  the  stanzas 
together,  and  then  make  the  chorus  fol- 
low. 

Fee  him  father — I  enclose  you  Frazer's 
set  of  this  tune  when  he  plays  it  slow ;  in 
fact  he  makes  it  the  language  of  despair. 
I  shall  here  give  you  two  stanzas  in  that 
style,  merely  to  try  if  it  will  be  any  im- 
provement. Were  it  possible,  in  singing 
to  give  it  half  the  pathos  which  Frazer 
gives  it  in  playing,  it  would  make  an  ad- 
mirably pathetic  song.     I   do  not  give 

*  This  song,  so  much  admired  by  our  bard,  will  be 
found  at  the  bottom  of  p.  229.    E. 


these  verses  for  any  merit  they  have.  I 
composed  them  at  the  time  in  which  Patie 
Allan's  mither  died,  that  was  about  the  back 
o'  midnight ;  and  by  the  lea-side  of  a  bowl 
of  punch,  which  had  overset  every  mortal 
in  company,  except  the  hautbois  and  the 
muse. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  Thou  hast 

left  me  ever, 
Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie,  Thou  hast 

left  me  ever. 

See  Poems,  p.  93. 

Jockey  and  Jennie  I  would  discard,  and 
in  its  place  would  put  There's  nae  luck 
about  the  house,  which  has  a  very  pleasant 
air,  and  which  is  positively  the  finest  love 
ballad  in  that  style  in  the  Scottish  or  per- 
haps any  other  language.  When  she  came 
ben  she  bobbit,  as  an  air,  is  more  beautiful 
than  either,  and  in  the  andante  way,  would 
unite  with  a  charming  sentimental  ballad. 

Saw  ye  my  Father  ?  is  one  of  my  great- 
est favourites.  The  evening  before  last, 
I  wandered  out,  and  began  a  tender  song  ; 
in  what  I  think  is  its  native  style.  I  must 
premise,  that  the  old  way,  and  the  way 
to  give  most  effect,  is  to  have  no  starting 
note,  as  the  fiddlers  call  it,  but  to  burst 
at  once  into  the  pathos.  Every  country 
girl  sings — Saw  ye  my  father,  &c. 

My  song  is  but  just  begun ;  and  I  should 
like,  before  I  proceeded,  to  know  your 
opinion  of  it.  I  have  sprinkled  it  with 
the  Scottish  dialect,  but  it  may  easily  be 
turned  into  correct  English.* 


Todlin  hame.  Urbani  mentioned  an 
idea  of  his,  which  has  long  been  mine  ; 
that  this  air  is  highly  susceptible  of  pa- 
thos ;  accordingly,  you  will  soon  hear  him 
at  your  concert  try  it  to  a  song  of  mine  in 
the  Museum  ;  Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bon- 
nie  Doon.  One  song  more  and  I  have 
done  :  Auld  lang  syne.  The  air  is  but 
mediocre  ;  but  the  following  song,  the  old 
song  of  the  olden  times,  and  which  has 
never  been  in  print,  nor  even  in  manu- 
script, until  I  took  it  down  from  an  old 
man's  singing,  is  enough  to  recommend 
any  air.f 

*  This  gong  begins, 

1  Where  are  the  joys  1  hae  met  in  the  morning.'    E. 
t  This  song  of  the  olden  time  is  excellent.    It  is  wor- 
thy of  our  bard. 


214 


LETTERS. 


AULD    LANG  SYNE. 


Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  93. 

Now,  I  suppose  I  have  tired  your  pa- 
tience fairly.  You  must,  after  all  is  over 
have  a  number  of  ballads,  properly  so 
called.  Gill  Morice,  Tranent  Muir,  J\P- 
Pherson's  Farewell,  Battle  of  Sheriff  Muir, 
or  We  ran  and  t/iry  ran,  (1  know  the  au- 
thor of  this  charming  ballad,  and  his  his- 
tory), Hardiknute,  Barbara  Allan,  (I  can 
furnish  a  finer  set  of  this  tune  than  any 
that  has  yet  appeared,)  and  besides,  do 
you  know  that  I  really  have  the  old  tune 
to  which  The  Cherry  and  the  Slae  was 
sung ;  and  which  is  mentioned  as  a  well 
known  air  in  Scotland's  Complaint,  a 
book  published  before  poor  Mary's  days. 
It  was  then  called  The  Banks  o'  Helicon; 
an  old  poem  which  Pinkerton  has  brought 
to  light.  You  will  see  all  this  in  Tytler's 
history  of  Scottish  music.  The  tune,  to 
a  learned  ear,  may  have  no  great  merit ; 
but  it  is  a  great  curiosity.  I  have  a  good 
many  original  things  of  this  kind. 


No.  XLIII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

I  am  happy,  my  dear  Sir,  that  my  ode 
pleases  you  so  much.  Your  idea  "  ho- 
nour's bed,"  is,  though  a  beautiful,  a  hack- 
neyed idea ;  so,  if  you  please,  we  will  let 
the  line  stand  as  it  is.  I  have  altered  the 
song  as  follows : 

BANNOCK-BURN. 


ROBERT  BRUCE  S  ADDRESS   TO  HIS  ARMY. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  often  led ; 

See  Poems,  p.  94. 

JV*.  B.  I  have  borrowed  the  last  stanza 
from  the  common  stall  edition  of  Wallace. 

"  A  false  usurper  sinks  in  every  foe, 
And  liberty  returns  with  every  blow." 

A  couplet  worthy  of  Homer.  Yester- 
day you  had  enough  of  my  correspondence. 
The  post  goes,  and  my  head  aches  mise- 


rably. One  comfort ! — I  suffer  so  much, 
just  now,  in  this  world,  for  last  night'a 
joviality,  that  I  shall  escape  scot-free  for 
it  in  the  world  to  come. — Amen. 


No.  XLIV. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 

12th  September,  1793. 

A  thousand  thanks  to  you,  my  dear 
Sir,  for  your  observations  on  the  list  of 
my  songs.  I  am  happy  to  find  your  ideas 
so  much  in  unison  witli  my  own,  respect- 
ing the  generality  of  the  airs,  as  well  as 
the  verses.  About  some  of  them  we  differ, 
but  there  is  no  disputing  about  hobby- 
horses. I  shall  not  fail  to  profit  by  the 
remarks  you  make;  and  to  re-consider 
the  whole  with  attention. 

Dainty  Davy,  must  be  sung  two  stanzas 
together,  and  then  the  chorus :  'tis  the 
proper  way.  I  agree  with  you  that  there 
may  be  something  of  pathos,  or  tender- 
ness at  least,  in  the  air  of  Fee  him  Father, 
when  performed  with  feeling :  but  a  ten- 
der cast  may  be  given  almost  to  any  lively 
air,  if  you  sing  it  very  slowly,  expressively, 
and  with  serious  words.  I  am,  however, 
clearly  and  invariably  for  retaining  the 
cheerful  tunes  joined  to  their  own  humo- 
rous verses,  wherever  the  verses  are  pass- 
able. But  the  sweet  song  for  Fee  Kim 
Father,  which  you  began  about  the  back 
of  midnight,  I  will  publish  as  an  additional 
one.  Mr.  James  Balfour,  the  king  of 
good  fellows,  and  the  best  singer  of  the 
lively  Scottish  ballads  that  ever  existed, 
has  charmed  thousands  of  companies  with 
Fee  him  Father,  and  with  Todlin  home 
also,  to  the  old  words,  which  never  should 
be  disunited  from  either  of  these  airs — 
Some  Bacchanals  I  would  wish  to  discard. 
Fy,  lets  a'  to  the  Bridal,  for  instance,  is  so 
coarse  and  vulgar,  that  I  think  it  fit  only 
to  be  sung  in  a  company  of  drunken  col- 
liers ;  and  Saio  ye  my  Father?  appears  to 
me  both  indelicate  and  silly. 

One  word  more  with  regard  to  your 
heroic  ode.  I  think,  with  great  defer- 
ence to  the  poet,  that  a  prudent  general 
would  avoid  saying  any  thing  to  his  sol- 
diers which  would  tend  to  make  death 
more  frightful  than  it  is.  Gory  presents 
a  disagreeable  image  to  the  mind,  and  to 
tell  them  "  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed," 


LETTERS. 


215 


seems  rather  a  discouraging  address,  not- 
withstanding the  alternative  which  fol- 
lows. I  have  shown  the  song  to  three 
friends  of  excellent  taste,  and  each  of 
them  objected  to  this  line,  which  embol- 
dens me  to  use  the  freedom  of  bringing  it 
again  under  your  notice.  I  would  sug- 
gest, 

"  Now  prepare  for  honour's  bed, 
Or  for  glorious  victorie." 


No.  XLV. 
MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

"  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  dis- 
agree ?"  My  ode  pleases  me  so  much 
that  I  cannot  alter  it.  Your  proposed 
alterations  would,  in  my  opinion,  make  it 
tame.  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you 
for  putting  me  on  reconsidering  it ;  as  I 
think  I  have  much  improved  it.  Instead 
of  "  soger  !  hero  !"  I  will  have  it  "  Cale- 
donian !  on  wi'  me  !" 

I  have  scrutinized  it  over  and  over ;  find 
to  the  world  some  way  or  other  it  shall  go 
as  it  is.  At  the  same  time  it  will  not  in 
the  least  hurt  me,  should  you  leave  it  out 
altogether,  and  adhere  to  your  first  in- 
tention of  adopting  Logan's  verses.* 

*  Mr.  Thomson  has  very  properly  adopted  this  song 
(if  It  may  be  so  called.)  as  the  bard  presented  it  to  him. 
lie  has  attached  it  to  the  air  of  Lewie  Gordon,  and  per- 
haps among  the  existing  airs  he  could  not  find  a  better ; 
but  the  poetry  is  suited  to  a  much  higher  strain  of  mu- 
sic, and  may  employ  the  genius  of  some  Scottish  Han- 
del, if  any  such  should  in  future  arise.  The  reader 
will  have  observed,  that  Burns  adopted  the  alterations 
proposed  by  his  friend  and  correspondent  in  former  in- 
stances, with  great  readiness:  perhaps,  indeed,  on  all 
Indifferent  occasions.  In  the  present  instance,  how- 
ever, he  rejected  them,  though  repeatedly  urged,  with 
determined  resolution-  With  every  respect  for  the 
judgment  of  Mr.  Thomson  and  his  friends,  we  may  be 
satisfied  that  he  did  so.  lie,  who  in  preparing  for  an 
engagement,  attempts  to  withdraw  his  imagination 
from  images  of  death,  will  probably  have  but  imperfect 
success,  and  is  not  fitted  to  sland  in  the  ranks  of  battle, 
where  the  liberties  of  a  kingdom  arc  at  issue.  Of  such 
men  the  conquerors  ofBannockburn  were  not  compos- 
ed Rrnce's  troops  were  inured  to  war,  and  familiar 
with  all  its  sufferings  and  dangers.  On  the  eve  cf  that 
memorable  day,  their  spirits  were,  without  doubt,  wound 
up  to  o  pitch  of  enthusiasm,  suited  to  the  occasion  :  a 
pitch  of  enthusiasm,  ut  which  danger  becomes  attrac- 
tive, and  the  most  terrific  forms  of  death  arc  no  longer 
terrible.     Such  a  strain  of  sentiment,  this  heroic  "  wel- 


I  have  finished  my  song  to  Sav)  ye  my 
Father?  and  in  English,  as  you  will  see. 
That  there  is  a  syllable  too  much  for  the 
expression  of  the  air,  is  true ;  but  allow 
me  to  say,  that  the  mere  dividing  of  a 
dotted  crochet  into  a  crochet  and  a  qua- 
ver, is  not  a  great  matter  ;  however,  in 
that  I  have  no  pretensions  to  cope  in 
judgment  with  you.  Of  the  poetry  I  speak 
with  confidence ;  but  the  music  is  a  busi- 
ness where  I  hint  my  ideas  with  the  ut- 
most diffidence. 

The  old  verses  have  merit,  though  un- 
equal, and  are  popular :  my  advice  is,  to 
set  the  air  to  the  old  words,  and  let  mine 
follow  as  English  verses.  Hero  they 
arc — 

FAIR  JENNY. 

Seep.  213. 

Tunc—"  Saw  ye  my  Father  ?" 

Where  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the 
morning, 
That  dane'd  to  the  lark's  early  song? 

See  Poems,  p.  94. 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir!  the  post  goes,  so 
I  shall  defer  some  other  remarks  until 
more  leisure. 


come"  may  be  supposed  well  calculated  to  elevate — to 
raise  their  hearts  high  above  fear,  and  to  nerve  their 
arms  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  mortal  exertion.  These 
observations  might  be  illustrated  and  supported  by  a 
reference  to  that  martial  poetry  of  all  nations,  from  the 
spirit-stirring  strains  of  Tyrta?us,  to  the  war-song  of 
General  Wolfe.  Mr.  Thomson's  observation,  that 
"  Welcome  to  yourgory  bed.isadiscouragingaddress," 
seems  not  sufficiently  considered.  Perhaps,  indeed,  it 
may  be  admitted,  that  the  term  gory  is  somewhat  ob- 
jectionable, not  on  account  of  its  presenting  a  frightful, 
but  a  disagreeable  image  to  the  mind.  lint  a  great  poet, 
uttering  his  conceptions  on  an  interesting  occasion, 
seeks  always  to  present  a  piclure  that  is  vivid,  and  is 
uniformly  disposed  to  sacrifice  the  delicacies  of  taste  on 
the  altar  of  the  imagination.  And  it  is  the  privilege  of 
superior  genius,  by  producing  a  new  association,  to  ele- 
vate expressions  that  were  originally  low,  and  thus  to 
triumph  over  the  deficiencies  of  language.  In  how 
many  instances  might  this  be  exemplified  from  the 
works  of  our  immortal  Shakspcare  : 

"  Who  would  fanlrls  bear, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life  ; — 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  !" 

It  were  easy  to  enlarge,  but  to  suggest  such  reflec- 
tions is  probably  sufficient. 


21G 


LETTERS. 


No.  XLVI. 


MR.  BURNS  TO    MR.  THOMSON. 
September,  1793. 

I  have  been  turning  over  some  vo- 
lumes of  songs,  to  find  verses  whose  mea- 
sures would  suit  the  airs,  for  which  you 
have  allotted  me  to  find  English  songs. 

For  Muirland  Willie,  you  have,  in  Ram- 
say's Tea-table,  an  excellent  song,  begin- 
ning, "  Ah  !  why  those  tears  in  Nelly's 
eyes  ?'"  As  for  The  Collier's  Dochter,  take 
the  following  old  Bacchanal. 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 
The  fickle  Fair  can  give  thee, 
See  Poems,  p.  94. 

The  faulty  line  in  Logan-Water,  I  mend 
thus : 

"  How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy, 
The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry  !" 

The  song  otherwise  will  pass.  As  to 
M'Qregoira  Rua  Ruth,  you  will  see  a 
song  of  mine  to  it,  with  a  set  of  the  air 
superior  to  yours,  in  the  Museum,  Vol.  ii. 
p.  181.     The  song  begins, 

"  Raving  winds  around  her  blowing." 

Your  Irish  airs  are  pretty,  but  they  are 
downright  Irish.  If  they  were  like  the 
Banks  of  Banna,  for  instance,  though 
really  Irish,  yet  in  the  Scottish  taste,  you 
might  adopt  them.  Since  you  are  so  fond 
of  Irish  music,  what  say  you  to  twenty- 
five  of  them  in  an  additional  number? 
We  could  easily  find  this  quantity  of 
charming  airs :  I  will  take  care  that  you 
shall  not  want  songs  ;  and  I  assure  you 
that  you  would  find  it  the  most  saleable 
of  the  whole.  If  you  do  not  approve  of 
Roifs  Wife,  for  the  music's  sake,  we  shall 
not  insert  it.  Deil  take  the  wars,  is  a 
charming  song ;  so  is,  Saw  ye  my  Peggy  ? 
There's  na  luck  about  the  house,  well  de- 
serves a  place.  I  cannot  say  that,  O'er 
the  hills  and  far  awa,  strikes  me  as  equal 
tip  your  selection.  Tim  is  no  mine  ain 
house,  id  a  great  favourite  air  of  mine: 
and  if  you  will  send  me  your  set  of  it,  I 
will  task  my  muse  to  her  highest  effort. 
What  is  your  opinion  of  I  hue  laid  a  ller- 
nn  in  sawt  ?  I  like  it  much.  Your  Jaco- 
bite  airs  are  pretty  ;  and  there  are  many 


others  of  the  same  kind,  pretty ;  but  you 
have  not  room  for  them.  You  cannot,  I 
think,  insert  Fie,  let  us  a'  to  the  bridal, 
to  any  other  words  than  its  own. 

What  pleases  me,  as  simple  and  naive, 
disgusts  you  as  ludicrous  and  low.  For 
this  reason,  Fie,  gie  me  my  cogie,  sirs — 
Fie,  let  us  a'  to  the  bridal,  with  several 
others  of  that  cast,  are  to  me  highly 
pleasing  ;  while,  Saw  ye  my  Father,  or 
saw  ye  my  Mother  ;  delights  me  with  its 
descriptive  simple  pathos.  Thus  my  song, 
Ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten  ? 
pleases  myself  so  much  that  I  cannot  try 
my  hand  at  another  song  to  the  air ;  so  I 
shall  not  attempt  it.  I  know  you  will 
laugh  at  all  this :  but,  "  Ilka  man  wears 
his  belt  his  ain  gait." 


No.  XLVII 
MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

October,  1793. 

Your  last  letter,  my  dear  Thomson, 
was  indeed  laden  with  heavy  news.  Alas, 
poor  Erskine  !*  The  recollection  that  he 
was  a  coadjutor  in  your  publication,  has 
till  now  scared  me  from  writing  to  you, 
or  turning  my  thoughts  on  composing  for 
you. 

I  am  pleased  that  you  are  reconciled  to 
the  air  of  the  Quaker's  Wife;  though,  by 
the  by,  an  old  Highland  gentleman,  and 
a  deep  antiquarian,  tells  me  it  is  a  Gaelic 
air,  and  known  by  the  name  of  Leiger  'm 
choss.  The  following  verses,  I  hope,  will 
please  you  as  an  English  song  to  the  air 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair. 
Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy ; 

See  Poems,  p.  94. 

Your  objection  to  the  English  song  1 
proposed  for  John.  Anderson  my  jo,  is  cer- 
tainly just.  The  following  is  by  an  old 
acquaintance  of  mine,  and  I  think  has 
merit.  The  song  was  never  in  print, 
which  T  think  is  so  much  in  your  favour. 
The  more  original  good  poetry  your  col- 
lection contains,  it  certainly  has  so  much 
the  more  merit. 

*  The  Honourable  A .  Frskine,  brother  to  Ford  Kelly, 
u  hose  melancholy  death  Mr.  Thomson  had  communi- 
cated in  an  excellent  letter,  which  he  has  suppressed. 


LETTERS. 


217 


SONG. 

BY    GAVIN    TURNBULL. 

O,  condescend,  dear  charming  maid, 
My  wretched  state  to  view ; 

A  tender  swain  to  love  hetray'd, 
And  sad  despair,  by  you. 

While  here,  all  melancholy, 

My  passion  I  deplore, 
Yet,  urged  by  stern  resistless  fate, 

I  love  thee  more  and  more. 

I  heard  of  love,  and  with  disdain, 
The  urchin's  power  denied ; 

I  laugh'd  at  every  lover's  pain, 
And  mock'd  them  when  they  sigh'd. 

But  how  my  state  is  alter'd  ! 

Those  happy  days  are  o'er ; 
For  all  thy  unrelenting  hate, 

I  love  thee  more  and  more. 

O,  yield,  illustrious  beauty,  yield, 

No  longer  let  me  mourn ; 
And  though  victorious  in  the  field, 

Thy  captive  do  not  scorn. 

Let  generous  pity  warm  thee, 
My  wonted  peace  restore  ; 

And,  grateful,  I  shall  bless  thee  still, 
And  love  thee  more  and  more. 


The  following  address  of  Turnbull's  to 
the  Nightingale,  will  suit  as  an  English 
song  to  the  air,  There  was  a  lass  and  she 
•was  fair.  By  the  by,  Turnbull  has  a 
great  many  songs  in  MS.  which  I  can  com- 
mand, if  you  like  his  manner.  Possibly, 
as  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  I  may  be 
prejudiced  in  his  favour,  but  I  like  some 
of  his  pieces  very  much. 


For  though  the  muses  deign  to  aid, 
And  teach  him  smoothly  to  complain; 

Yet  Delia,  charming,  cruel  maid, 
Is  deaf  to  her  forsaken  swain. 

All  day,  with  fashion's  gaudy  sons, 
In  sport  she  wanders  o'er  the  plain  : 

Their  tales  approves,  and  still  she  shuns 
The  notes  of  her  forsaken  swain. 

When  evening  shades  obscure  the  sky, 
And  bring  the  solemn  hours  again, 

Begin,  sweet  bird,  thy  melody, 
And  soothe  a  poor  forsaken  swain. 


I  shall  just  transcribe  another  of  Turn- 
bull's  which  would  go  charmingly  to 
Lewie  Gordon. 


LAURA. 


BT    G.  TURNBULL. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

BT    G.  TURNBULL. 

Thou  sweetest  minstrel  of  the  grove, 
That  ever  tried  the  plaintive  strain, 

Awake  thy  tender  tale  of  love, 
And  soothe  a  poor  forsaken  swain. 


Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
By  shady  wood  or  winding  rill ; 
Where  the  sweetest  May-born  flowers 
Paint  the  meadows,  deck  the  bowers ; 
Where  the  linnet's  early  song 
Echoes  sweet  the  woods  among : 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

If  at  rosy  dawn  I  chuse, 

To  indulge  the  smiling  muse  ; 

If  I  court  some  cool  retreat, 

To  avoid  the  noon-tide  heat ; 

If  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

Through  unfrequented  wilds  I  stray  ; 

Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 

Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

When  at  night  the  drowsy  god 
Waves  his  sleep-compelling  rod, 
And  to  fancy's  wakeful  eyes 
Bids  celestial  visions  rise ; 
While  with  boundless  joy  I  rove, 
Thro'  the  fairy-land  of  love; 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 


The  rest  of  your  letter  I  shall  answer 
at  some  other  opportunity. 


218 


LETTERS. 


No.  XLVIII. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO    MR.  BURNS. 

1th  November,  1793. 

MY  GOOD  SIR, 

After  so  long  a  silence,  it  gave  me 
peculiar  pleasure  to  recognize  your  well- 
known  hand,  for  I  had  begun  to  be  ap- 
frehensivc  that  all  was  not  well  with  you. 
am  happy  to  find,  however,  that  your 
silence  did  not  proceed  from  that  cause, 
and  that  you  have  got  among  the  ballads 
once  more. 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  English 
song  to  Leiger  'm  choss,  which  I  think 
extremely  good,  although  the  colouring 
is  warm.  Your  friend  Mr.  Turnbull's 
songs  have,  doubtless  considerable  merit; 
and  as  you  have  the  command  of  his 
manuscripts,  I  hope  you  will  find  out  some 
that  will  answer,  as  English  songs,  to  the 
airs  yet  unprovided. 


No.  XLIX. 
MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

December,  1793. 

Tell  me  how  you  like  the  following 
verses  to  the  tune  of  Jo  Janet. 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife, 
Nor  longer  idly  rave,  Sir ; 

See  Poems,  p.  95. 


Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 

Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  1 1 4. 


No.  L. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO    MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  1 1th  April,  1 794. 

MY   DEAR  SIR, 

Owing  to  the  distress  of  our  friend  for 
the  loss  o£hischild„8.1  the  time  of  his  receiv- 
ing your  admirable  bul  rhelancholy  Inter, 


I  had  not  an  opportunity,  till  lately,  of  pe- 
rusing it.*  How  sorry  I  am  to  find  Burns 
saying,  "  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a 
mind  diseased?"  while  he  is  delighting 
others  from  one  end  of  the  island  to  the 
other.  Like  the  hypochondriac  who  went 
to  consult  a  physician  upon  his  case — Go, 
says  the  doctor,  and  see  the  famous  Car- 
lini,  who  keeps  all  Paris  in  good  humour. 
Alas !  Sir,  replied  the  patient,  I  am  that 
unhappy  Carlini ! 

Your  plan  for  our  meeting  together 
pleases  me  greatly,  and  I  trust  that  by 
some  means  or  other  it  will  soon  take 
place  ;  but  your  Bacchanalian  challenge 
almost  frightens  me,  for  I  am  a  miserable 
weak  drinker  ! 

Allan  i3  much  gratified  by  your  good 
opinion  of  his  talents.  He  has  just  be- 
gun a  sketch  from  your  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,  and  if  it  pleases  himself  in  the  de- 
sign, he  will  probably  etch  or  engrave  it. 
In  subjects  of  the  pastoral  and  humorous 
kind,  he  is  perhaps  unrivalled  by  any  art- 
ist living.  He  fails  a  little  in  giving 
beauty  and  grace  to  his  females,  and  his 
colouring  is  sombre,  otherwise  his  paint- 
ings and  drawings  would  be  in  greater 
request. 

I  like  the  music  of  the  Sutor's  Dochter, 
and  will  consider  whether  it  shall  be  ad- 
ded to  the  last  volume ;  your  verses  to  it 
are  pretty :  but  your  humorous  English 
song,  to  suit  Jo  Janet,  is  inimitable. 
What  think  you  of  the  air,  Within  a  mile 
of  Edinburgh  ?  It  has  always  struck  me 
as  a  modern  imitation,  but  it  is  said  to  be 
Oswald's,  and  is  so  much  liked,  that  I  be- 
lieve I  must  include  it.  The  verses  are 
little  better  than  namby  pamby.  Do  yon 
consider  it  worth  a  stanza  or  two ? 


No.  LI. 


MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 
May,  1794. 

MY   DEAR  SIR, 

I  return  you  the  plates,  with  which 
I  am  highly  pleased  ;  I  would  humbly 
propose'  instead  of  the  younker  knitting 
stockings,  to  put  a  stock  and  horn   into 

*  A  loiter  to  Mr.  Cunningham,  No.  CF,.  of  tho  Co- 
rn i.ii  Correspondence. 


LETTERS. 


219 


his  hands.  A  friend  of  mine,  who  is  po- 
sitively the  ablest  judge  on  the  subject  I 
have  ever  met  with,  and  though  an  un- 
known, is  yet  a  superior  artist  with  the 
Burin,  is  quite  charmed  with  Allan's  man- 
ner. I  got  him  a  peep  of  the  Gentle  Shep- 
herd ;  and  he  pronounces  Allan  a  most 
original  artist  of  great  excellence. 

For  my  part,  I  look  on  Mr.  Allan's 
chusing  my  favourite  poem  for  his  subject, 
to  be  one  of  the  highest  compliments  I 
have  ever  received. 

I  am  quite  vexed  at  Pleyel's  being 
cooped  up  in  France,  as  it  will  put  an  en- 
tire stop  to  our  work.  Now,  and  for  six 
or  seven  months,  /  shall  be  quite  in  song, 
as  you  shall  see  by  and  by.  I  got  an  air, 
pretty  enough,  composed  by  Lady  Eliza- 
beth Heron,  of  Heron,  which  she  calls 
The  Banks  of  Cree.  Cree  is  a  beautiful 
romantic  stream ;  and  as  her  Ladyship  is 
a  particular  friend  of  mine,  I  have  written 
the  following  song  to  it. 

BANKS  OF  CREE. 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower ; 
All  underneath  the  birchen  shade ; 

See  Poems,  p.  95. 


No.  LII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

July,  1794.  . 

Is  there  no  news  yet  of  Pleyel  ?  Or  is 
your  work  to  be  at  a  dead  stop,  until  the 
allies  set  our  modern  Orpheus  at  liberty 
from  the  savage  thraldom  of  democratic 
discords?  Alas  the  day !  And  wo  is  me  ! 
That  auspicious  period  pregnant  with  the 
happiness  of  millions.* — ****** 

I  have  presented  a  copy  of  your  songs 
to  the  daughter  of  a  much-valued  and 
much-honoured  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, of  Fintry.  I  wrote  on  the  blank 
side  of  the  title-page  the  following  address 
to  the  young  lady. 

Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal 
lives 

*  A  portion  of  this  hitter  has  been  loft  out  fur  rea- 
sons that  will  easily  bo  imagined. 
C  c2 


In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful   numbers 
join'd, 

See  Poems,  p.  95. 


No.  LTII. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 
Edinburgh,  Will  August,  1794. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  owe  you  an  apology  for  having  so 
long  delayed  to  acknowledge  the  favour 
of  your  last.  I  fear  it  will  be  as  you  say, 
I  shall  have  no  more  songs  from  Pleyel 
till  France  and  we  are  friends ;  but  never- 
theless, I  am  very  desirous  to  be  prepared 
with  the  poetry  ;  and  as  the  season  ap- 
proaches in  which  your  muse  of  Coila 
visits  you,  I  trust  I  shall,  as  formerly,  be 
frequently  gratified  with  the  result  of 
your  amorous  and  tender  interviews  ! 


No.  LIV. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

30th  August,  1794. 

The  last  evening,  as  I  was  straying 
out,  and  thinking  of,  O'er  the  hills  and  far 
away,  I  spun  the  following  stanzas  for  it ; 
but  whether  my  spinning  will  deserve  to 
be  laid  up  in  store,  like  the  precious  thread 
of  the  silk-worm,  or  brushed  to  the  devil, 
like  the  vile  manufacture  of  the  spider,  I 
leave,  my  dear  Sir,  to  your  usual  candid 
criticism.  I  was  pleased  with  several 
lines  in  it  at  first :  but  I  own  that  now  it 
appears  rather  a  flimsy  business. 

This  is  just  a  hasty  sketch,  until  I  see 
whether  it  be  worth  a  critique.  We  have 
many  sailor  songs,  but  as  far  as  I  at  pre- 
sent recollect,  they  are  mostly  the  effu- 
sions of  the  jovial  sailor,  not  the  wailing9 
of  his  love-lorn  mistress.  I  must  here 
make  one  sweet  exception — Sxceet  Annie 
frae  the  sea-beach  came.  Now  for  the  song. 

ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 
When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  ? 
See  Poems,  p.  9G. 

I  give  you  leave  to  abuse  this  song,  but 
do  it  in  the  spirit  of  Christian  meekness. 


220 


LETTERS. 


No.  LV. 


MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 
Edinburgh,  16th  September,  1794. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

You  have  anticipated  my  opinion  of 
On  the  seas  and  far  away ;  I  do  not  think 
it  one  of  your  very  happy  productions, 
though  it  certainly  contains  stanzas  that 
are  worthy  of  all  acceptation. 

The  second  is  the  least  to  my  liking, 
particularly  "  Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  !" 
Confound  the  hullets  !  It  might,  per- 
haps, be  objected  to  the  third  verse,  "At 
the  starless  midnight  hour,"  that  it  has 
too  much  grandeur  of  imagery,  and  that 
greater  simplicity  of  thought  would  have 
better  suited  the  character  of  a  sailor's 
sweetheart.  The  tune,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, is  of  the  brisk,  cheerful  kind. 
Upon  the  whole,  therefore,  in  my  humble 
opinion,  the  song  would  be  better  adapted 
to  the  tune,  if  it  consisted  only  of  the  first 
and  last  verses  with  the  choruses. 


No.  LVI. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1794. 

I  shall  withdraw  my,  On  the  seas  and 
far  away,  altogether :  it  is  unequal,  and 
unworthy  the  work.  Making  a  poem  is 
like  begetting  a  son :  you  cannot  know 
whether  you  have  a  wise  man  or  a  fool, 
until  you  produce  him  to  the  world  to  try 
him. 

For  that  reason  I  send  you  the  offspring 
of  my  brain,  abortions  and  all  ;  and,  as 
such,  pray  look  over  them,  and  forgive 
them,  and  burn*  them.  I  am  flattered  at 
your  adopting  Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
as  it  was  owing  to  me  that  ever  it  saw 
the  light.  About  seven  years  ago  I  was 
well  acquainted  with  a  worthy  little  fel- 
low of  a  clergyman,  a  Mr.  Clunie,  who 
sung  it  charmingly  ;  and,  at  my  request, 
Mr.  Clarke  took  it  down  from  his  singing. 
When  I  gave  it  to  Johnson,  I  added  some 

•  This  Virgilian  ordor  of  ihe  poet  should,  I  think,  be 
disobeyed  with  respect  to  the  song  in  question,  the  se- 
cond stanza  excepted.     Note  by  Mr.  Thomson. 

Doctors  differ.  The  objection  to  the  second  stanza 
does  not  Rtrilio  the  Editor.    E. 


stanzas  to  the  song  and  mended  others, 
but  still  it  will  not  do  for  you.  In  a  soli- 
tary stroll  which  I  took  to-day,  I  tried  my 
hand  on  a  few  pastoral  lines,  following 
up  the  idea  of  the  chorus,  which  I  would 
preserve.  Here  it  is,  with  all  its  crudi- 
ties and  imperfections  on  its  head. 


Ca)  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 

See  Poems,  p.  96. 

I  shall  give  you  my  opinion  of  your 
other  newly  adopted  songs  my  first  scrib- 
bling fit. 


No.  LVII. 

MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 
September,  1794. 

Do  you  know  a  blackguard  Trish  song 
called  Onagh's  Water-fall  ?  The  air  is 
charming,  and  I  have  often  regretted  the 
want  of  decent  verses  to  it.  It  is  too 
much  at  least  for  my  humble  rustic  muse, 
to  expect  that  every  effort  of  hers  shall 
have  merit ;  still  I  think  that  it  is  better 
to  have  mediocre  verses  to  a  favourite  air, 
than  none  at  all.  On  this  principle  I 
have  all  along  proceeded  in  the  Scots  Mu- 
sical Museum  ;  and  as  that  publication  is 
at  its  last  volume,  I  intend  the  following 
song  to  the  air  above-mentioned,  for  that 
work. 

If  it  does  not  suit  you  as  an  editor,  you 
may  be  pleased  to  have  verses  to  it  that 
you  can  sing  before  ladies. 

SHE  SAYS  SHE  LO'ES  ME  BEST  OP  A'. 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 
Her  eye-brows  of  a  darker  hue, 

See  Poems,  p.  96 

Not  to  compare  small  things  with  great, 
my  taste  in  music  is  like  the  mighty 
Frederick  of  Prussia's  taste  in  painting; 
we  are  told  that  he  frequently  admired 
what  the  connoisseurs  decried,  and  al- 
ways without  any  hypocrisy  confessed  his 
adnuration      I  am  sensible  that  my  taste 


LETTERS. 


221 


in  music  must  be  inelegant  and  vulgar, 
because  people  of  undisputed  and  culti- 
vated taste  can  find  no  merit  in  my  fa- 
vourite tunes.  Still,  because  1  am  cheaply 
pleased,  is  that  any  reason  why  I  should 
deny  myself  that  pleasure?  Many  of  our 
strathspeys,  ancient  and  modern,  give  me 
most  exquisite  enjoyment,  where  you  and 
other  judges  would  probably  be  showing 
disgust.  For  instance,  I  am  just  now 
making  verses  for  Rothiemurchie's  Rant, 
an  air  which  puts  me  in  raptures  ;  and,  in 
fact,  unless  I  be  pleased  with  the  tune,  I 
never  can  make  verses  to  it.  Here  I  have 
Clarke  on  my  side  who  is  a  judge  that  I 
will  pit  against  any  of  you.  Rothiemur- 
cfiie,  he  says,  is  an  air  both  original  and 
beautiful;  and  on  his  recommendation  I 
have  taken  the  first  part  of  the  tune  for  a 
chorus,  and  the  fourth  or  last  part  for  the 
song.  I  am  but  two  stanzas  deep  in  the 
work,  and  possibly  you  may  think  and 
justly,  that  the  poetry  is  as  little  worth 
your  attention  as  the  music.* 

I  have  begun  anew,  Let  me  in  this  ae 
night.  Do  you  think  that  we  ought  to 
retain  the  old  chorus  ?  T  think  we  must 
retain  both  the  old  chorus  and  the  first 
stanza  of  the  old  song.  I  do  not  al- 
together like  the  third  line  of  the  first 
stanza,  but  cannot  alter  it  to  please  my- 
self. I  am  just  three  stanzas  deep  in  it. 
Would  you  have  the  denoument  to  be  suc- 
cessful or  otherwise  ?  should  she  "  let 
him  in,"  or  not  ? 

Did  you  not  once  propose  The  Sow's 
Tail  to  Geordie,  as  an  air  for  your  work  ? 
I  am  quite  diverted  with  it ;  but  I  ac- 
knowledge that  is  no  mark  of  its  real  ex- 
cellence. I  once  set  about  verses  for  it, 
which  I  meant  to  be  in  the  alternate  way 
of  a  lover  and  his  mistress  chanting  to- 
gether. I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing Mrs.  Thomson's  Christian  name,  and 
yours  I  am  afraid  is  rather  burlesque  for 
sentiment,  else  I  had  meant  to  have  made 
you  the  hero  and  heroine  of  the  little 
piece. 

How  do  you  like  the  following  epi- 
gram, which  I  wrote  the  other  day  on  a 
lovely  young  girl's  recovery  from  a  fever  ? 
Doctor  Maxwell  was  the  physician  who 
seemingly  saved  her  from  the  grave  ;  and 
to  him  I  address  the  following. 

•  In  the  original,  follow  here  two  stanzas  of  a  song, 
beginning  "  Lassie  wi'  the  lint-wl.ite  locks." 


TO  DR.  MAXWELL, 
On  Miss  Jessy  Staig's  Recovery. 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave, 

That  merit  I  deny  : 
You  save  fair  Jessy  from  the  grave  7 — 

An  angel  could  not  die. 

God  grant  you  patience  with  this  stu- 
pid epistle ! 


No.  LVIII. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

I  perceive  the  sprightly  muse  is  now 
attendant  upon  her  favourite  poet,  whose 
wood-notes  wild  are  becoming  as  enchant- 
ing as  ever.  She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of 
a\  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  table-songs  I 
have  seen,  and  henceforth  shall  be  mine 
when  the  song  is  going  round.  I'll  give 
Cunningham  a  copy  ;  he  can  more  pow- 
erfully proclaim  its  merit.  I  am  far  from 
undervaluing  your  taste  for  the  strath- 
spey music ;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  it 
highly  animating  and  agreeable,  and 
that  some  of  the  strathspeys,  when  gra- 
ced with  such  verses  as  yours,  will  make 
very  pleasing  songs  in  the  same  way  that 
rough  Christians  are  tempered  and  soft- 
ened by  lovely  woman ;  without  whom, 
you  know,  they  had  been  brutes. 

I  am  clear  for  having  the  Sow's  Tail, 
particularly  as  your  proposed  verses  to  it 
are  so  extremely  promising.  Geordie,  as 
you  observe,  is  a  name  only  fit  for  bur- 
lesque composition.  Mrs.  Thomson's 
name  (Katherine)  is  not  at  all  poetical. 
Retain  Jeanie  therefore,  and  make  the 
other  Jamie,  or  any  other  that  sounds 
agreeably. 

Your  Co?  the  ewes  is  a  precious  little 
morceau.  Indeed,  I  am  perfectly  aston- 
ished and  charmed  with  the  endless  vari- 
ety of  your  fancy.  Here  let  me  ask  you, 
whether  you  never  seriously  turned  your 
thoughts  upon  dramatic  writing  ?  That  is 
a  field  worthy  of  your  genius,  in  which 
it  might  shine  forth  in  all  its  splendor. 
One  or  two  successful  pieces  upon  the 
London  stage  would  make  your  fortune. 
The  rage  at  present  is  for  musical  dra- 
mas :  few  or  none  of  those  which  have 
appeared  since  the  Dvenna,  possess  much 
poetical  merit :  there  is  little  in  the  con- 


222 


LETTERS. 


duct  of  the  fable,  or  in  the  dialogue,  to 
interest  the  audience.  They  are  chiefly 
vehicles  for  music  and  pageantry.  I  think 
you  miffht  produce  a  comic  opera  in  three 
acts,  which  would  live  by  the  poetry,  at 
the  same  time  that  it  would  be  proper  to 
take  every  assistance  from  her  tuneful 
sister.  Part  of  the  songs,  of  course, 
would  be  to  our  favourite  Scottish  airs  ; 
the  rest  might  be  left  to  the  London  com- 
poser— Storace  for  Drury-lane,  or  Shield 
for  Covent-garden :  both  of  them  very 
able  and  popular  musicians.  I  believe 
that  interest  and  monceuvring  are  often 
necessary  to  have  a  drama  brought  on ; 
so  it  may  be  with  the  namby  pamby  tribe 
of  flowery  scribblers ;  but  were  you  to  ad- 
dress Mr.  Sheridan  himself  by  letter,  and 
send  him  a  dramatic  piece,  I  am  persuad- 
ed he  would,  for  the  honour  of  genius, 
give  it  a  fair  and  candid  trial.  Excuse 
me  for  obtruding  these  hints  upon  your 
consideration.* 


No.  LIX. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.   BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  14th  October,  1794. 

The  last  eight  days  have  been  devoted 
to  there-examination  of  the  Scottish  col 
lections.  I  have  read,  and  sung,  and 
fiddled,  and  considered,  till. I  am  half 
blind  and  wholly  stupid.  The  few  airs  I 
have  added  are  enclosed. 

Peter  Pindar  has  at  length  sent  me  all 
the  songs  I  expected  from  him,  which  are 
in  general  elegant  and  beautiful.  Have 
you  heard  of  a  London  collection  of  Scot- 
tish airs  and  songs,  just  published  by  Mr. 
Ritson,  an  Englishman  ?  I  shall  send  you 
a  copy.  His  introductory  essay  on  the 
subject  is  curious  and  evinces  great  read- 
ing and  research,  but  does  not  decide  the 
question  as  to  the  origin  of  our  melodies; 
though  he  shows  clearly  thai  Mr.  Tytler, 
in  his  ingenious  dissertation,  has  adduced 
no  sort  of  proof  of  the  hypothesis  he  wish- 
ed to  establish ;  and  that  his  classifica- 
tion of  the  airs  according  to  the  eras, 
when  they  were  composed,  is  mere  fancy 
and  conjecture.  On  John  Pinkcrton,  Esq. 
he  has  no  mercy ;  but  consigns  him  to 
damnation  !  He  snarls  at  my  publication, 

•  ( >ur  bard  bad  Ixforo  received  the  same  advice,  nnd 
certainly  took  it  no  far  into  consideration,  as  to  havo 
cost  about  rot  a  subject.  li- 


on the  score  of  Pindar  being  engaged  to 
write  some  songs  for  it ;  uncandidly  and 
unjustly  leaving  it  to  be  inferred,  that  the 
songs  of  Scottish  writers  had  been  sent  a 
packing  to  make  room  for  Peter's !  Of 
you  he  speaks  with  some  respect,  but 
gives  you  a  passing  hit  or  two,  for  daring 
to  dress  up  a  little,  some  old  foolish  songa 
for  the  Museum.  His  sets  of  the  Scottish 
airs,  are  taken,  he  says,  from  the  oldest  col- 
lections and  best  authorities :  many  of  them, 
however,  have  such  a  strange  aspect,  and 
arc  so  unlike  the  sets  which  are  sung  by 
every  person  of  taste,  old  or  young,  in 
town  or  country,  that  we  can  scarcely 
recognize  the  features  of  our  favourites 
By  going  to  the  oldest  collections  of  our 
music,  it  does  not  follow  that  we  find  the 
melodies  in  their  original  state.  These 
melodies  had  been  preserved,  we  know 
not  how  long,  by  oral  communication,  be- 
fore being  collected  and  printed ;  and  as 
different  persons  sing  the  same  air  very 
differently,  according  to  their  accurate  or 
confused  recollections  of  it,  so  even  sup- 
posing the  first  collectors  to  have  pos- 
sessed the  industry,  the  taste,  and  dis- 
cernment to  choose  the  best  they  could 
hear  (which  is  far  from  certain,)  still  it 
must  evidently  be  a  chance,  whether  tho 
collections  exhibit  any  of  the  melodies  in 
the  state  they  were  first  composed.  In 
selecting  the  melodies  for  my  own  collec- 
tion, I  have  been  as  much  guided  by  the 
living  as  by  the  dead.  Where  these  dif- 
fered, I  preferred  the  sets  that  appeared 
to  me  the  most  simple  and  beautiful,  and 
the  most  generally  approved  :  and  with- 
out meaning  any  compliment  to  my  own 
capability  of  choosing,  or  speaking  of  the 
pains  I  have  taken,  I  flatter  myself  that 
my  sets  will  be  found  equally  freed  from 
vulgar  errors  on  the  one  hand,  and  affect- 
ed graces  on  the  other. 


No.  LX. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.   THOMSON. 
19th  October,  1794. 

MY   PEAR  FKIEND, 

Bv  this  morning's  post  I  have  your 
list,  and,  in  general,  I  highly  approve  of 
it.  t  shall,  at  more  leisure  give  you  a 
critique  on  the  whole.  Clarke  goes  to 
your  own  town  by  to-day's  fly,  and  I  wish 
you  would  call  on  him  and  take  his  opi- 
nion in  general :  you  know  his  taste  is  a 


LETTERS. 


2£{ 


standard.  He  will  return  here  again  in 
a  week  or  two ;  so,  please  do  not  miss 
asking  for  him.  One  thing  I  hope  he 
will  do,  persuade  you  to  adopt  my  favour- 
ite Cragie-burn-wood,  in  your  selection; 
it  is  as  great  a  favourite  of  his  as  of  mine. 
The  lady  on  whom  it  was  made,  is  one  of 
the  finest  women  in  Scotland ;  and  in  fact 
(entre  nous)  is  in  a  manner  to  me,  what 
Sterne's  Eliza  was  to  him — a  mistress, 
or  friend,  or  what  you  will  in  the  guileless 
simplicity  of  Platonic  love.  (Now  don't 
put  any  of  your  squinting  constructions 
on  this  or  have  any  clish-maclaver  about 
it  among  our  acquaintances.)  I  assure 
you  that  to  my  lovely  friend  you  are  in- 
debted for  many  of  your  best  songs  of 
mine.  Do  you  think  that  the  sober,  gin- 
horse  routine  of  existence,  could  inspire  a 
man  with  life,  and  love,  and  joy — could  fire 
him  with  enthusiasm,  or  melt  him  with 
pathos,  equal  to  the  genius  of  your  book  ? 
No  !  no  ! — Whenever  I  want  to  be  more 
than  ordinary  in  song ;  to  be  in  some  de- 
gree equal  to  your  diviner  airs ;  do  you 
imagine  that  I  fast  and  pray  for  the  ce- 
lestial emanation  ?  Tout  au  contrarie  !  I 
have  a  glorious  recipe ;  the  very  one  that 
for  his  own  use  was  invented  by  the  di- 
vinity of  healing  and  poetry,  when  erst 
he  piped  to  the  flocks  of  Admetus.  I  put 
myself  in  a  regimen  of  admiring  a  fine 
woman  5  and  in  proportion  to  the  adora- 
bility  of  her  charms,  in  the  proportion 
you  are  delighted  with  my  verses.  The 
lightning  of  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of 
Parnassus ;  and  the  witchery  of  her  smile, 
the  divinity  of  Helicon ! 

To  descend  to  business ;  if  you  like  my 
idea  of  When  she  cam  ben  she  bobbit,  the 
following  stanzas  of  mine,  altered  a  little 
from  what  they  were  formerly  when  set 
to  another  air,  may  perhaps  do  instead  of 
worse  stanzas. 

SAW  YE  MT  PHELT. 

O,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
O,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  97. 

Now  for  a  few  miscellaneous  remarks. 
The  Pone,  (in  the  Museum)  is  my  com- 
position ;  the  air  was  taken  down  from 
Mrs.  Burns's  voice.*     It  is  well  known 

*  The  Posie  will  be  found  in  the  Poems,  p.  113.  This, 
and  the  other  poems  of  which  he  speaks,  had  appeared 
in  Johnson's  Museum,  and  Mr.  T.  had  inquired  wheth- 
er tliey  were  our  bard"s 


in  the  West  Country,  but  the  old  words 
are  trash.  By  tho  by,  take  a  look  at  tho 
tune  again,  and  tell  me  if  you  do  not  think 
it  is  the  original  from  which  Roslin  Cas- 
tle is  composed.  The  second  part  in  par- 
ticular, for  the  first  two  or  three  bars,  is 
exactly  the  old  air.  Stratliallen's  La- 
ment is  mine ;  the  music  is  by  our  right 
trusty  and  deservedly  well-beloved  Allan 
Masterton.  Donocht-Head  is  not  mine ; 
I  would  give  ten  pounds  it  were.  It  ap- 
peared first  in  the  Edinburgh  Herald; 
and  came  to  the  editor  of  that  paper  with 
the  Newcastle  post-mark  on  it.*  Whis- 
tle o'er  the  lave  o't  is  mine ;  the  music  is 
said  to  be  by  John  Bruce,  a  celebrated 
violin-player  in  Dumfries,  about  the  be- 
ginning of  this  century.  This  I  know, 
Bruce,  who  was  an  honest  man,  though  a 
redwud  Highlandman,  constantly  claimed 
it ;  and  by  all  the  Oldest  musical  people 
here,  is  believed,  to  be  the  author  of  it. 

Andrew  and  his  cxdly  Gun  The  song 
to  which  this  is  set  in  the  Museum  is 
mine,  and  was  composed  on  Miss  Euphe- 

*  The  reader  will  be  curious  to  see  this  poem,  so 
highly  praised  by  Burns.    Here  it  is. 

Keen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  Donoeht-Head,t 

The  snaw  drives  snelly  thro'  the  dale  ; 
The  Gaber-lunzie  tirls  my  sneck, 

And  shivering,  tells  his  waefu'  tale: 
"  Cauld  is  the  night,  O  let  me  in, 

And  dinna  let  your  minstrel  fa' ; 
And  dinna  let  his  winding  sheet 

Be  naething  but  a  wreath  o'  snaw. 

"  Full  ninety  winters  hae  I  seen, 

And  piped  where  gor-cocks  whirring  flew ; 
And  mony  a  day  I've  danced,  I  ween, 

To  lilts  which  from  my  drone  I  blew." 
My  Eppie  waked  and  soon  she  cried, 

'  Get  up,  guidman,  and  let  him  in ; 
For  weel  ye  ken  the  winter  night 

Was  short  when  he  began  his  din.* 

My  Eppie's  voice  O  wow  it's  sweet, 

Even  tho'  she  bans  and  scaulds  a  wee  ; 
But  when  it's  tuned  to  sorrow's  tale, 

O,  haith,  it's  doubly  dear  to  me  ; 
Come  in,  auld  carl,  I'll  steer  my  fire, 

I'll  make  it  bleeze  a  bonnie  flame  ; 
Your  bluid  is  thin,  ye've  tint  the  gate, 

Ye  should  nae  stray  sae  far  frae  haine. 

"  Nae  hame  have  I,"  the  minstrel  said, 
"  Sad  party-strife  o'erturn'd  my  ha' ; 

And  weeping  at  the  eve  of  life, 
I  wander  thro'  a  wreath  o'  snaw." 

This  afTecting  poem  is  apparently  incomplete.  The 
author  need  not  be  ashamed  to  own  himself.  It  Is 
worthy  of  Hums,  or  of  Macniel.  K. 

f  A  mountain  in  the  North. 


224 


LETTERS. 


mia  Murray,  of  Lintrosc,  commonly  and 
deservedly  called  the  Flower  of  Strath- 
more. 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night!  I 
met  with  some  such  words  in  a  collection 
of  songs  somewhere,  which  I  altered  and 
enlarged ;  and  to  please  you,  and  to  suit 
your  favourite  air,  I  have  taken  a  stride 
or  two  across  my  room,  and  have  ar- 
ranged it  anew,  as  you  will  find  on  the 
other  page. 


How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night, 
When  I  am  frae  my  dearie  ! 

See  Poems,  p.  97. 

Tell  me  how  you  like  this.  I  differ 
from  your  idea  of  the  expression  of  the 
tune.  There  is,  to  me,  a  great  deal  of 
tenderness  in  it.  You  cannot,  in  my  opi- 
nion, dispense  with  a  bass  to  your  adden- 
da airs.  A  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  a 
noted  performer,  plays  and  sings  at  the 
same  time  so  charmingly,  that  I  shall  ne- 
ver bear  to  see  any  of  her  songs  sent  into 
the  world,  as  naked  as  Mr.  What-d'ye- 
call-um  has  done  in  his  London  collec- 
tion.* 

These  English  songs  gravel  me  to 
death.  I  have  not  that  command  of  the 
language  that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue. 
I  have  been  at  Duncan  Gray,  to  dress  it 
in  English,  but  all  I  can  do  is  deplorably 
stupid.     For  instance ; 

SONG. 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 
Of  inconstancy  in  love ; 

See  Poems,  p.  97. 

Since  the  above,  I  have  been  out  in  the 
country,  taking  a  dinner  with  a  friend, 
where  I  met  with  the  lady  whom  I  men- 
tioned in  the  second  page  in  this  odds- 
and-ends  of  a  letter.  As  usual  I  got  into 
song :  and  returning  home  I  composed  the 
following : 

THE  LOVER'9  MORNING   SALUTE   TO 
HIS    MISTRESS. 

Sleep'st  thou  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest 
creature ; 

»  Mr.  Ritson. 


Rosy  morn  now  lifts  his  eye,*f 

See  Poems,  p.  86. 

If  you  honour  my  verses  by  setting  the 
air  to  them,  I  will  vamp  up  the  old  song, 
and  make  it  English  enough  to  be  under- 
stood. 

I  enclose  you  a  musical  curiosity,  an 
East  Indian  air,  which  you  would  swear 
was  a  Scottish  one.  I  know  the  authen- 
ticity of  it,  as  the  gentleman  who  brought 
it  over,  is  a  particular  acquaintance  of 
mine.  Do  preserve  me  the  copy  I  send 
you,  as  it  is  the  only  one  I  have.  Clarke 
has  set  a  bass  to  it,  and  I  intend  putting 
it  into  the  Musical  Museum.  Here  fol- 
low the  verses  I  intend  for  it. 

the  auld  man. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green, 
The  woods  rejoie'd  the  day. 

See  Poems,  p.  98. 

I  would  be  obliged  to  you  if  you  would 
procure  me  a  sight  of  Ritson's  collection 
of  English  songs,  which  you  mention  in 
your  letter.  I  will  thank  you  for  another 
information,  and  that  as  speedily  as  you 
please  :  whether  this  miserable  drawling 
hotchpotch  epistle  has  not  completely 
tired  you  of  my  correspondence  ? 


No.  LXI. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  21th  October,  1794. 

I  am  sensible,  my  dear  friend,  that  a 
genuine  poet  can  no  more  exist  without 

*  Prom  the  fifth  to  the  eleventh  line  of  this  song 
stood  originally  thus : 

Now  to  the  streaming  fountain, 

Or  up  the  heathy  mountain, 
The  hart,  hind,  and  roe,  freely  wildly-wanton  stray ; 

In  twining  hazel  bowers 

His  lay  the  linnet  pours  ; 

The  lav'rock,  &c. 

t  The  last  eight  lines  stood  originally  thus: 
When  frac  my  Chloris  parted, 
Sad,  cheerless,  broken-hearted.       fmy  sky. 

The  night's  gloomy  shades,  cloudy,  dark,  o'ercast 
But  when  she  charms  my  sight, 
In  pride  of  beauty's  light; 
When  thro'  my  very  heart 
Her  blooming  glories  dart  • 

'Tis  then,  'tis  then  I  wake  to  life,  and  joy.         E. 


LETTERS. 


225 


Iiis  mistress  than  his  meat.  I  wish  I 
knew  the  adorable  she  whose  bright  eyes 
and  witching  smiles  have  so  often  enrap- 
tured the  Scottish  bard  !  that  I  might 
drink  her  sweet  health  when  the  toast  is 
going  round.  Cragic-hurn-wood,  must 
certainly  be  adopted  into  my  family,  since 
she  is  the  object  of  the  song;  but  in  the 
name  of  decency  I  must  beg  a  new  cho- 
rus-verse from  you.  O  to  be  lying  beyond 
thee,  dearie,  is  perhaps  a  consummation  to 
be  wished,  but  will  not  do  for  singing  in 
the  company  of  ladies.  The  songs  in 
your  last  will  do  you  lasting  credit,  and 
suit  the  respective  airs  charmingly.  I 
am  perfectly  of  your  opinion  with  respect 
to  the  additional  airs.  The  idea  of  send- 
ing them  into  the  world  naked  as  they 
were  born  was  ungenerous.  They  must 
all  be  clothed  and  made  decent  by  our 
friend  Clarke. 

I  find  I  am  anticipated  by  the  friendly 
Cunningham  in  sending  you  Ritson's 
Scottish  collection.  Permit  me,  there- 
fore, to  present  you  with  his  English  col- 
lection, which  you  will  receive  by  the 
coach.  I  do  not  find  his  historical  essay 
on  Scottish  song  interesting.  Your  anec- 
dotes and  miscellaneous  remarks  will,  I 
am  sure,  be  much  more  so.  Allan  has 
just  sketched  a  charming  design  from 
Maggie  Lauder.  She  is  dancing  with 
such  spirit  as.  to  electrify  the  piper,  who 
seems  almost  dancing  too,  while  he  is 
playing  with  the  most  exquisite  glee.  I 
am  much  inclined  to  get  a  small  copy, 
and  to  have  it  engraved  in  the  style  of 
Ritson's  prints. 

P.  S.  Pray  what  do  your  anecdotes 
Bay  concerning  Maggie  Lauder?  was 
she  a  real  personage,  and  of  what  rank  ? 
You  would  surely  spier  for  her  ifyouca'd 
at  Anslruther  town. 


No.  LXII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

November,  1794. 

Many  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for 
your  present.  It  is  a  book  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  me.  I  have  yesterday  be- 
gun my  anecdotes,  &c.  for  your  work.  I 
intend  drawing  it  up  in  the  form  of  a  let- 
ter to  you,  which  will  save  me  from  the  te- 
dious, dull  business  of  systematic  arrange- 
ment.    Indeed,  as  all  I  have  to  say  con- 


sists of  unconnected  remarks,  anecdotes, 
scraps  of  old  songs,  &c,  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  give  the  work  a  beginning,  a. 
middle,  or  an  end,  which  the  critics  insist 
to  be  absolutely  necessary  in  a  work.* 
In  my  last  I  told  you  my  objections  to  the 
song  you  had  selected  for  My  Lodging  is 
on  the  cold  ground.  On  my  visit  the 
other  day  to  my  fair  Chloris  (that  is  the 
poetic  name  of  the  lovely  goddess  of  my 
inspiration,)  she  suggested  an  idea,  which 
I,  in  my  return  from  the  visit,  wrought 
into  the  following  song. 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 
The  primrose  banks  how  fair ; 

See  Poems,  p.  98. 

How  do  you  like  the  simplicity  and  ten- 
derness of  this  pastoral  ?  I  think  it  pretty 
well. 

I  like  your  entering  so  candidly  and  so 
kindly  into  the  story  of  Ma  there  Amic. 
I  assure  you  I  was  never  more  in  earnest 
in  my  life,  than  in  the  account  of  that  af- 
fair which  I  sent  you  in  my  last. — Con- 
jugal love  is  a  passion  which  I  deeply 
feel,  and  highly  venerate  ;  but,  somehow, 
it  does  not  make  such  a  figure  in  poesy 
as  that  other  species  of  the  passion, 

"  Where  love  is  liberty,  and  Nature  law." 

Musically  speaking,  the  first  is  an  instru- 
ment of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty  and  con- 
fined, but  the  tones  inexpressibly  sweet ; 
while  the  last  has  powers  equal  to  all  the 
intellectual  modulations  of  the  human 
soul.  Still  I  am  a  very  poet  in  my  enthu- 
siasm of  the  passion.  The  welfare  and 
happiness  of  the  beloved  object  is  the  first 
and  inviolate  sentiment  that  pervades  my 
soul ;  and  whatever  pleasures  I  might 
wish  for,  or  whatever  might  be  the  rap- 
tures they  would  give  me,  yet,  if  they  in- 
terfere with  that  first  principal,  it  is  hav- 
ing these  pleasures  at  a  dishonest  price  ; 
and  justice  forbids,  and  generosity  dis- 
dains the  purchase !     *     *     •   •* 

Despairing  of  my  own  powers  to  give 
you  variety  enough  in  English  songs,  I 
have  been  turning  over  old  collections,  to 
pick  out  songs,  of  which  the  measure  is 
something  similar  to  what  I  want ;  and, 
with  a  little  alteration,  so  as  to  suit  the 

*  It  does  not  appear  whether  Burns  completed  these 
anecdotes,  &x.  Something  of  the  kind  (probably  the 
rude  draughts,)was  found  amongst  his  papers,  and  ap- 
pears iti  Appendix  No.  II.  Note  V>. 


226 


LETTERS. 


rhythm  of  the  air  exactly,  to  give  you 
them  for  your  work.  Where  the  songs 
have  hitherto  been  but  little  noticed,  nor 
have  ever  been  set  to  music,  I  think  the 
shift  a  fair  one.  A  song,  which,  under 
the  same  first  verse,  you  will  find  in  Ram- 
say's Tea-Table  Miscellany,  I  have  cut 
down  for  an  English  dress  to  your  Dain- 
tic  Davie,  as  follows  : 

SONG 

Altered  from  an  old  English  one. 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  flowers  were  fresh  and  gay, 
See  Poems,  p.  98. 

You  may  think  meanly  of  this,  but  take 
a  look  at  the  bombast  original,  and  you 
will  be  surprised  that  I  have  made  so  much 
of  it.  I  have  finished  my  song  to  Rothie- 
murchie's  Rant ;  and  you  have  Clarke  to 
consult  as  to  the  set  of  the  air  for  singing. 

LASSIE  Wl'  THE  LINT-WHITE   LOCKS.* 


Lassia  wC  the  lint-white  locks, 
Bonnie  lassie,  artless  lassie, 

See  Poems,  p. 


90. 


This  piece  has  at  least  the  merit  of  be- 
ing a  regular  pastoral :  the  vernal  morn, 
the  summer  noon,  the  autumnal  evening, 
and  the  winter  night,  are  regularly  round- 
ed. If  you  like  it,  well :  if  not,  I  will  in- 
sert it  in  the  Museum. 

I  am  out  of  temper  that  you  should  set 
so  sweet,  so  tender  an  air,  as  Deil  tak  the 
wars,  to  the  foolish  old  verses.  You  talk 
of  the  silliness  of  Saw  ye  my  father  ?  by 
heavens  !  the  odds  is  gold  to  brass !  Be- 
sides, the  old  song,  though  now  pretty 
well  modernized  into  the  Scottish  lan- 
guage, is  originally,  and  in  the  early  edi- 
tions, a  bungling  low  imitation  of  the 
Scottish  manner,  by  that  genius  Tom 
D'Urfcy;  so  has  no  pretensions  to  be  a 
Scottish  production.  There  is  a  pretty 
English  song  by  Sheridan,  in  the  Duenna, 
to  this  air,  which  is  out  of  sight  superior 
to  D'Urfey's.     It  begins, 

*  In  sonic  of  the  MSS.  the  last  stanza  of  this  song 
runs  thus: 

And  should  the  howling  wint'ry  blast 
Disturb  my  lassie's  midnight  rest, 
I'll  fauld  thee  to  my  falthfil'  breast. 
Ami  com/oil  tin  e  mydearii  1 1 


'  When  sable  night  each  drooping  plant  restoring.' 

The  air,  if  I  understand  the  expression  of 
it  properly,  is  the  very  native  language  of 
simplicity,  tenderness  and  love.  I  have 
again  gone  over  my  song  to  the  tune  as 
follows.* 

Now  for  my  English  song  to  Nancy's 
to  the  greenwood,  tyc 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flows 
Around  Eliza's  dwelling  ! 

See  Poems,  p.  99. 

There  is  an  air,  The  Caledonian  Hunt's 
Delight,  to  which  I  wrote  a  song  that  you 
will  find  in  Johnson. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon; 
this  air,  I  think,  might  find  a  place  among 
your  hundred,  as  Lear  says  of  his  knights. 
Do  you  know  the  history  of  the  air  ?  It 
is  curious  enough.  A  good  many  years 
ago,  Mr.  James  Miller,  writer  in  your 
good  town,  a  gentleman  whom  possibly 
you  know,  was  in  company  with  our  friend 
Clarke  ;  and  talking  of  Scottish  music, 
Miller  expressed  an  ardent  ambition  to  be 
able  to  compose  a  Scots  air.  Mr.  Clarke, 
partly  by  way  of  joke,  told  him  to  keep 
to  the  black  keys  of  the  harpsichord,  and 
preserve  some  kind  of  rhythm  ;  and  he 
would  infallibly  compose  a  Scots  air. 
Certain  it  is,  that,  in  a  few  days,  Mr. 
Miller  produced  the  rudiments  of  an  air, 
which  Mr.  Clarke  with  some  touches  and 
corrections,  fashioned  into  the  tune  in 
question.  Ritson,  you  know,  has  the 
same  story  of  the  black  keys ;  but  this 
account  which  I  have  just  given  you,  Mr. 
Clarke  informed  me  of  several  years  ago. 
Now  to  show  you  how  difficult  it  is  to 
trace  the  origin  of  our  airs,  I  have  heard 
it  repeatedly  asserted  that  this  was  an 
Irish  air  ;  nay,  I  met  with  an  Irish  gentle- 
man who  affirmed  he  had  heard  it  in  Ire- 
land among  the  old  women ;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  Countess  informed  me,  that 
the  first  person  who  introduced  the  air 
into  this  country,  was  a  baronet's  lady  of 
her  acquaintance,  who  took  down  the 
notes  from  an  itinerant  piper  in  the  Isle 
of  Man.  How  difficult  then  to  ascertain 
the  truth  respecting  our  poesy  and  music. 
I,  myself  have  lately  seen  a  couple  of  bal- 

*  Sec  the  song  in  its  first  and  best  dress  in  page  212. 
"Out  bard  remarks  upon  it,  "I  could  easily  throw  ilii 
into  an  Knglish  mould  ;  but,  to  my  taste,  in  the  simple 
ami  the  tender  of  the  pastoral  song,  a  sprinkling  of  the 
old  Scottish  lias  an  inimitable  effect."     K 


LETTERS. 


227 


lads  sung  through  the  streets  of  Dumfries 
with  my  name  at  the  head  of  them  as  the 
author,  though  it  was  the  first  time  I  had 
ever  seen  them. 

I  thank  you  for  admitting  Cragic-burn- 
wood  ;  and  I  shall  take  care  to  furnish  you 
with  a  new  chorus.  In  fact  the  chorus 
was  not  my  work,  but  a  part  of  some  old 
verses  to  the  air.  If  I  can  catch  myself 
in  a  more  than  ordinarily  propitious  mo- 
ment, I  shall  write  a  new  Cragie-burn- 
wood  altogether.  My  heart  is  much  in 
the  theme. 

I  am  ashamed,  my  dear  fellow,  to  make 
the  request ;  'tis  dunning  your  generosity; 
but  in  a  moment,  when  I  had  forgotten 
whether  I  was  rich  or  poor,  I  promised 
Chlo'ris  a  copy  of  your  songs.  It  wrings 
my  honest  pride  to  write  you  this  :  but 
an  ungracious  request  is  doubly  so  by  a 
tedious  apology.  To  make  you  some 
amends,  as  soon  as  I  have  extracted  the 
necessary  information  out  of  them,  I  will 
return  you  Ritson's  volumes. 

The  lady  is  not  a  little  proud  that  she 
is  to  make  so  distinguished  a  figure  in 
your  collection,  and  I  am  not  a  little  proud 
that  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  please  her 
eo  much.  Lucky  it  is  for  your  patience 
that  my  paper  is  done,  for  when  I  am  in 
a  scribbling  humour  I  know  not  when  to 
give  over. 


No.  LXIII. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 


13'/i  November,  1794. 


MY  GOOD  SIR, 


Since  receiving  your  last,  I  have  had 
another  interview  with  Mr.  Clarke,  and 
a  long  consultation.  He  thinks  the  Ca- 
ledonian Hunt  is  more  Bacchanalian  than 
amorous  in  its  nature,  and  recommends  it 
to  you  to  match  the  air  accordingly.  Pray 
did  it  ever  occur  to  you  how  peculiarly 
well  the  Scottish  airs  are  adapted  for  ver- 
ses in  the  form  of  a  dialogue?  The  first 
part  of  the  air  is  generally  low,  and  suit- 
ed for  a  man's  voice,  and  the  second  part 
in  many  instances  cannot  be  sung,  at  con- 
cert pitch,  but  by  a  female  voice.  A  song 
thus  performed  makes  an  agreeable  va- 
riety, but  few  of  ours  are  written  in  this 
1)  d 


form :  I  wish  you  would  think  of  it  in 
some  of  those  that  remain.  The  only 
one  of  the  kind  you  have  sent  me  is  ad- 
mirable, and  will  be  a  universal  favourite. 

Your  verses  for  Rothicmurchie  are  so 
sweetly  pastoral,  and  your  serenade  to 
Chloris,  for  Diet  tak  the  wars,  so  passion- 
ately tender,  that  I  have  sung  myself  in- 
to raptures  with  them.  Your  song  for 
My  lodging  is  on  the  cold  ground,  is  like- 
wise a  diamond  of  the  first  water;  and  I 
am  quite  dazzled  and  delighted  by  it. 
Some  of  your  Chlorises  I  suppose  have 
flaxen  hair,  from  your  partiality  for  this 
colour ;  else  we  differ  about  it ;  for  I 
should  scarcely  conceive  a  woman  to  be 
a  beauty,  on  reading  that  she  had  lint- 
white  locks. 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flows, 
I  think  excellent,  but  it  is  much  too  se- 
rious to  come  after  Nancy;  at  least  it 
would  seem  an  incongruity  to  provide  the 
same  air  with  merry  Scottish  and  melan- 
choly English  verses !  The  more  that  the 
two  sets  of  verses  resemble  each  other  in 
their  general  character,  the  better.  Those 
you  have  manufactured  for  Dainty  Davie 
will  answer  charmingly.  I  am  happy  to 
find  you  have  begun  your  anecdotes !  I 
care  not  how  long  they  be,  for  it  is  im- 
possible that  any  thing  from  your  pen  can 
be  tedious.  Let  me  beseech  you  not  to 
use  ceremony  in  telling  me  when  you 
wish  to  present  any  of  your  friends  with 
the  songs :  the  next  carrier  will  bring 
you  three  copies,  and  you  are  as  welcome 
to  twenty  as  to  a  pinch  of  snuff". 


No.  LXIV. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

19th  November,  1794. 

You  see,  my  dear  Sir,  what  a  punctual 
correspondent  I  am ;  though  indeed  you 
may  thank  yourself  for  the  tedium  of  my 
letters,  as  you  have  so  flattered  me  on 
my  horsemanship  with  my  favourite  hob- 
by, and  praised  the  grace  of  his  ambling 
so  much,  that  I  am  scarcely  ever  off*  his 
back.  For  instance,  this  morning,  though 
a  keen  blowing  frost,  in  my  walk  before 
breakfast,  I  finished  my  duet  which  you 
were  pleased  to  praise  so  much.  Wheth- 
er I  have  uniformly  succeeded,  I  will  not 
say;  but  here  it,  is  for  you,  though  it  is 
not  an  hour  old. 


228 


LETTERS. 


0  Philly,  happy  be  that  day 
When  roving  through  the  gather'd  hay, 

See  Poems,  p.  99. 

Tell  me  honestly  how  you  like  it ;  and 
point  out  whatever  you  think  faulty. 

1  am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of 
6inging  our  songs  in  alternate  stanzas, 
and  regret  that  you  did  not  hint  it  to  me 
sooner.  In  those  that  remain,  I  shall 
have  it  in  my  eye.  I  remember  your 
objections  to  the  name  Philly  ;  but  it  is 
the  common  abbreviation  of  Phillis.  Sal- 
ly, the  only  other  name  that  suits,  has  to 
my  ear  a  vulgarity  about  it,  which  unfits 
it  for  any  thing  except  burlesque.  The 
legion  of  Scottish  poetasters  of  the  day, 
whom  your  brother  editor,  Mr.  Ritson, 
ranks  with  me,  as  my  coevals,  have  al- 
ways mistaken  vulgarity  for  simplicity : 
whereas,  simplicity  is  as  much  eloignee  from 
vulgarity  on  the  one  hand,  as  from  affected 
point  and  puerile  conceit  on  the  other. 

I  agree  with  you  as  to  the  air,  Cragie- 
burn-wood,  that  a  chorus  would  in  some 
degree  spoil  the  effect;  and  shall  certain- 
ly have  none  in  my  projected  song  to  it. 
It  is  not  however  a  case  in  point  with  Ro- 
thiemurchie ; there,  asinRoy's  WifeofAl- 
divaloch,  a  chorus  goes,  to  my  taste,  well 
enough.  As  to  the  chorus  going  first,  that 
is  the  case  with  Roy's  Wife,  as  well  as 
Rothiemurchie.  In  fact,  in  the  first  part 
of  both  tunes,  the  rhythm  is  so  peculiar 
and  irregular,  and  on  that  irregularity  de- 
pends so  much  of  their  beauty,  that  we 
must  e'en  take  them  with  all  their  wild- 
ness,  and  humour  the  verses  accordingly. 
Leaving  out  the  starting  note,  in  both 
times  has,  I  think,  an  effect  that  no  re- 
gularity could  counterbalance  the  want  of. 

Try 

O  Roy's  Wife  of  Ahlivaloch. 

O  Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks. 

and  compare  with, 

Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivaloch. 
Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks. 

Docs  not  the  tameness  of  the  prefixed 
syllable  strike  you  ?  In  the  last  case,  with 
the  true  furor  of  genius,  you  strike  at 
once  into  the  wild  originality  of  the 
air:  whereas  in  the  first  insipid  method, 


it  is  like  the  grating  screw  of  the  pins  be- 
fore the  fiddle  is  brought  into  tune.  This 
is  my  taste  ;  if  I  am  wrong,  I  beg  pardon 
of  the  cognoscenti. 

The  Caledonian  Hunt  is  so  charming 
that  it  would  make  any  subject  in  a  song 
go  down ;  but  pathos  is  certainly  its  na- 
tive tongue.  Scottish  Bacchanalians  we 
certainly  want,  though  the  few  we  have 
are  excellent.  For  instance,  Tod/in 
Home,  is,  for  wit  and  humour,  an  un- 
paralleled composition ;  and  Andrew  and 
his  cutty  gun,  is  the  work  of  a  master. 
By  the  way,  are  you  not  quite  vexed  to 
think  that  those  men  of  genius,  for  such 
they  certainly  were,  who  composed  our 
fine  Scottish  lyrics,  should  be  unknown  ? 
It  has  given  me  many  a  heart-ache.  A- 
propos  to  Bacchanalian  songs  in  Scottish ; 
I  composed  one  yesterday,  for  an  air  I 
like  much — Lumps  o'  Pudding. 

Contented  wi'  little,  and  canty  wi'  mair, 
Whene'er  I  forgather  wi'  sorrow  and  care, 

See  Poems,  p.  97. 

If  you  do  not  relish  this  air,  I  will  send 
it  to  Johnson. 

Since  yesterday's  penmanship,  I  have 
framed  a  couple  of  English  stanzas,  by 
way  of  an  English  song  to  Roy's  Wife. 
You  will  allow  me  that  in  this  instance, 
my  English  corresponds  in  sentiment 
with  the  Scottish. 

CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS,  MY  KATY  ? 
CHORUS. 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ?* 

See  Poems  p.  100. 

*  To  this  address,  in  the  character  of  a  forsaken  lo- 
ver, a  reply  was  found  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  among 
the  MSS.  of  our  hard,  evidently  in  a  female  hand-wri- 
tnlg  ;  which  is  doubtless  that  referred  to  in  p.  213,  let- 
ter No.  XLIf.  JVotc.  The  temptation  to  give  it  to  the 
public  is  irresistible  ;  and  if,  in  so  doing,  offence  should 
be  given  to  the  fair  authoress,  the  beauty  of  her  verses 
must  plead  our  excuse. 

Tunc—1  Roy's  Wife.' 


Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me, 

Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me, 

For,  ah  I  thou  know'st  na  every  pan 

Wad  wring  my  bosom  shouldst  thou  leave  mc. 

Tell  me  that  thou  yet  art  true, 
And  a'  my  wrongs  shall  be  forgiven, 


LETTERS. 


229 


Well !  I  think  this,  to  be  done  in  two 
or  throe  turns  across  my  room,  and  with 
two  or  three  pinches  of  Irish  Blackguard, 
is  not  so  far  amiss.  You  see  I  am  de- 
termined to  have  my  quantum  of  applause 
from  somebody. 

Tell  my  friend  Allan  (for  I  am  sure  that 
we  only  want  the  trilling  circumstance  of 
being  known  to  one  another,  to  be  the 
best  friends  on  earth)  that  I  much  sus- 
pect he  has,  in  his  plates,  mistaken  the 
figure  of  the  stock  and  horn.  I  have,  at 
last,  gotten  one  ;  but  it  is  a  very  rude  in- 
strument. It  is  composed  of  three  parts  ; 
the  stock,  which  is  the  hinder  thigh-bone 
of  a  sheep,  such  as  you  see  in  a  mutton 
ham ;  the  horn,  which  is  a  common  High- 
land cow's  horn,  cut  off  at  the  smaller 
end,  until  the  aperture  be  large  enough  to 
admit  the  stock  to  be  pushed  up  through 
the  horn  until  it  be  held  by  the  thicker  end 
of  the  thigh-bone ;  and  lastly,  an  oat- 
en reed  exactly  cut  and  notched  like  that 
which  you  see  every  shepherd  boy  have, 
when  the  corn-stems  are  green  and  full- 
grown.  The  reed  is  not  made  fast  in  the 
bone,  but  is  held  by  the  lips,  and  plays 
loose  in  the  smaller  end  of  the  stock : 
while  the  stock,  with  the  horn  hanging  on 
its  larger  end,  is  held  by  the  hands  in  play- 
ing. The  stock  has  six  or  seven  venti- 
ges  on  the  upper  sides,  and  one  back  ven- 
tige,  like  the  common  flute.  This  of 
mine  was  made  by  a  man  from  the  braes 
of  Athole,  and  is  exactly  what  the  shep- 
herds wont  to  use  in  that  country. 

However,  either  it  is  not  quite  proper- 
ly bored  in  the  holes,  or  else  we  have 
not  the  art  of  blowing  it  rightly  ;  for  we 

And  when  this  heart  proves  fause  to  tbee, 
Yon  sun  shall  cease  its  course  in  heaven. 
Stay  my  Willie,  c$-c. 

But  to  think  I  was  betray'd, 
That  falsehood  e'er  our  loves  should  sunder ! 

To  take  the  flow'ret  to  my  breast, 
And  find  the  guilefu'  serpent  under ! 

Stay  my  Willie,  See. 

Could  I  hope  thou'dst  ne'er  deceive, 
Celestial  pleasures,  might  I  choose  'em, 

I'd  slight,  nor  seek  in  other  spheres 
That  heaven  I'd  find  within  thy  bosom- 
Stay  my  Willie,  $rc. 

It  may  amuse  the  reader  to  be  told,  that  on  this  oc- 
casion the  gentleman  and  the  lady  have  exchanged  the 
dialects  of  their  respective  countries.  The  Scottish 
hard  mak^s  his  address  in  pure  English  :  the  reply  on 
(lie  part  of  the  lady,  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  is,  if  we 
mistake  not,  by  a  young  and  beautiful  Englishwo- 
man. E. 


can  make  little  of  it.  If  Mr.  Allan 
chooses  I  will  send  him  a  sight  of  mine ; 
as  I  look  on  myself  to  be  a  kind  of  bro- 
ther-brush with  him.  "  Pride  in  Poets  is 
nae  sin  ;"  and  I  will  say  it,  that  I  look  on 
Mr.  Allan  and  Mr.  Burns  to  be  the  only 
genuine  and  real  painters  of  Scottish  cos- 
tume in  the  world. 


No.  LXV. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

28th  November,  1794. 

I  acknowledge,  my  dear  Sir,  you  are 
not  only  the  most  punctual,  but  the  most 
delectable  correspondent  I  ever  met  with. 
To  attempt  flattering  you,  never  entered 
into  my  head ;  the  truth  is,  I  look  back 
with  surprise  at  my  impudence,  in  so 
frequently  nibbling  at  lines  and  couplets 
of  your  incomparable  lyrics,  for  which, 
perhaps,  if  you  had  served  me  right,  yoa 
would  have  sent  me  to  the  devil.  On  the 
contrary,  however,  you  have  all  along 
condescended  to  invite  my  criticism  with 
so  much  courtesy,  that  it  ceases  to  be 
wonderful,  If  I  have  sometimes  given  my- 
self the  airs  of  a  reviewer.  Your  last 
budget  demands  unqualified  praise :  all 
the  songs  are  charming,  but  the  duet  is  a 
chef  (V  ceuvre.  Lumps  o'  Pudding  shall 
certainly  make  one  of  my  family  dishes  ; 
you  have  cooked  it  so  capitally,  that  it 
will  please  all  palates.  Do  give  us  a  few 
more  of  this  cast  when  you  find  yourself 
in  good  spirits ;  these  convivial  songs  are 
more  wanted  than  those  of  the  amorous 
kind,  of  which,  we  have  great  choice. 
Besides,  one  does  not  often  meet  with 
a  singer  capable  of  giving  the  proper 
effect  to  the  latter,  while  the  former 
are  easily  sung,  and  acceptable  to  every 
body.  I  participate  in  your  regret  that 
the  authors  of  some  of  our  best  songs  are 
unknown  ;  it  is  provoking  to  every  ad- 
mirer of  genius. 

I  mean  to  have  a  picture  painted  from 
your  beautiful  ballad,  The  Soldier's  Re- 
turn, to  be  engraved  for  one  of  my  fron 
tispieces.  The  most  interesting  point  of 
time  appears  to  me,  when  she  first  recog- 
nizes her  ain  dear  Willy,  "  Shegaz'd,  she 
redden'd  like  a  rose."  The  three  lines 
immediately  following  are  no  doubt  more 
impressive  on  the  reader's  feelings;  but 


LETTERS. 


230 

were  the  painter  to  fix  on  these,  then 
you'll  observe  the  animation  and  anxiety 
of  her  countenance  is  gone,  and  he  could 
only  represent  her  fainting  in  the  soldier's 
arms.  But  I  submit  the  matter  to  you, 
and  beg  your  opinion. 

Allan  desires  me  to  thank  you  for  your 
accurate  description  of  the  stock  and  horn, 
and  for  the  very  gratifying  compliment^ 
you  pay  him  in  considering  him  worthy  of 
standing  in  a  niche  by  the  side  of  Burns 
in  the  Scottish  Pantheon.  He  has  seen 
the  rude  instrument  you  describe,  so  docs 
not  want  you  to  send  it ;  but  wishes  to 
know  whether  you  believe  it  to  have  ever 
been  generally  used  as  a  musical  pipe  by  the 
Scottish  shepherds,  and  when,  and  in  what 
part  of  the  country  chiefly.  I  doubt  much 
if  it  was  capable  of  any  thing  but  routing 
and  roaring.  A  friend  of  mine  says  he  re- 
members to  have  heard  one  in  his  younger 
days  made  of  wood  instead  of  your  bone, 
and  that  the  sound  was  abominable. 

Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  return  any  books. 


No.  LXVI. 
MR.  BURNS  TO    MR.  THOMSON 

December,  1794. 
It  is,  I  assure  you,  the  pride  of  my 
heart,  to  do  any  thing  to  forward,  or  add 
to  the  value  of  your  book ;  and  as  I  agree 
with  you  that  the  Jacobite  song  in  the 
Museum,  to  There'll  never  be  peace  till 
Jamie  comes  hame,  would  not  so  well  con- 
sort witli  Peter  Pindar's  excellent  love- 
gong  to  that  air,  I  have  just  framed  for 
you  the  following : 

my  nannie's  awa. 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  nature 
arrays, 
istens  the 
the  braes, 


arrays, 
And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o'er 


See  Poems,  p.  100. 

How  does  this  please  you  ?  As  to  the 
point  of  time  for  the  expression,  in  your 
proposed  print  from  my  Sodgcr's  Return, 
it  must  certainly  be  at — "She  gaz'd." 
The  interesting  dubiety  and  suspense 
taking  possession  of  her  countenance,  and 
the  gushing  fondness  with  a  mixture  of 
roguish  playfulness  in  his,  strike  me,  as 
things  of  which  a  master  will  make  a 
great  deal.  In  great  haste,  but  in  great 
truth,  yours. 


No.  LXVII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

January,  1795. 

I  fear  for  my  songs ;  however  a  few 
may  please,  yet  originality  is  a  coy  fea- 
ture in  composition,  and  in  a  multiplicity 
of  efforts  in  the  same  style,  disappears 
altogether.  For  these  three  thousand 
years,  we  poetic  folks,  have  been  describ- 
ing the  spring,  for  instance ;  and  as  tho 
spring  continues  the  same,  there  must 
soon  be  a  sameness  in  the  imagery,  &c. 
of  these  said  rhyming  folks. 

A  great  critic,  Aikin,  on  songs,  says, 
that  love  and  wine  are  the  exclusive 
themes  for  song-writing.  The  following 
is  on  neither  subject,  and  consequently  i» 
no  song;  but  will  be  allowed,  I  think,  to  ba 
two  or  three  pretty  good  prose  thoughts 
inverted  into  rhyme. 

FOR  A'  THAT  AND  A'  THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 
That  hangs  his  head  and  a'  that ; 

See.  Poems,  p.  100. 

I  do  not  give  you  the  foregoing  song 
for  your  book,  but  merely  by  way  of  vive 
la  bagatelle ;  for  the  piece  is  not  really 
poetry.  How  will  the  following  do  for 
Craigie-burn-wood  ?* 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Cragie-burn, 
And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow ; 
See  Poems,  p.  101. 

Farewell !  God  bless  you. 


No.  LXVIH. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  30th  January,  1795. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  thank  you  heartily  for  Nannie's 
awa,  as  well  as  for  Craigic-burn,  which 

*  Craigie-burn-wood  is  situated  on  the  banka  of  tho 
river  MotFat,  and  about  three  miles  distant  from  the  vil- 
lage of  that  name,  celebrated  for  its  medicinal  waters. 
—The  woods  of  Craigic-burn  and  of  Dumcrief,  were  at 
one  time  favourite  haunts  of  our  poet.  It  was  there  he 
met  the  "  Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks,"  and  that  ho 
conceived  several  of  bis  beautiful  lyrics.    K 


LETTERS. 


231 


I  think  a  very  comely  pair.  Your  obser- 
vation on  the  difficulty  of  original  writing 
in  a  number  of  efforts,  in  the  same  style, 
strikes  me  very  forcibly  :  and  it  has  again 
and  again  excited  my  wonder  to  find  you 
continually  surmounting  this  difficulty,  in 
the  many  delightful  songs  you  have  sent 
me.  Your  vive  la  bagatelle  song,  For  a' 
that,  shall  undoubtedly,  be  included  in  my 
list. 


No.  LXIX- 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

February,  1795. 

Here  is  another  trial  at  your  favour- 
ite air. 

O  Lassie,  art  thou  sleeping  yet  ? 
Or  art  thou  wakin,  I  would  wit? 
See  Poems,  p.  101. 


her  answer. 


O  tell  na  me  o'  wind  and  rain, 
Upbraid  me  na  wi'  cauld  disdain 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  will  do. 


No.  LXX. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 
Ecclefechan,  1th  Feb.,  1795. 

MY  DEAR  THOMSON, 

You  cannot  have  any  idea  of  the  pre- 
dicament in  which  I  write  to  you.  In  the 
course  of  my  duty  as  Supervisor  (in  which 
capacity  I  have  acted  of  late,)  I  came  yes- 
ternight to  this  unfortunate,  wicked,  little 
village.  I  have  gone  forward,  but  snows 
of  ten  feet  deep  have  impeded  my  pro- 
gress ;  I  have  tried  to  "  gae  back  the  gait 
I  cam  again,"  but  the  same  obstacle  has 
shut  me  up  within  insuperable  bars.  To 
add  to  my  misfortune,  since  dinner,  a 
scraper  has  been  torturingcatgut,in  sounds 
that  would  have  insulted  the  dying  ago- 
nies of  a  sow  under  the  hands  of  a  butcher, 
and  thinks  himself,  on  that  very  account, 
exceeding  good  cvupany.  Tn  fact,  I  have 
been  in  a  dilemma,  either  to  get  drunk, 
to  forget  these  miseries,  or  to  hang  my- 


self to  get  rid  of  them  ;  like  a  prudent 
man  (a  character  congenial  to  my  every 
thought,  word,  and  deed,)  I  of  two  evils, 
have  chosen  t  lie  least,  and  am  very  drunk, 
at  your  service  !* 

I  wrote  to  you  yesterday  from  Dum- 
fries. I  had  not  time  then  to  tell  you  all 
I  wanted  to  say ;  and  heaven  knows,  at 
present  I  have  not  capacity. 

Do  you  know  an  air — I  am  sure  you 
must  know  it,  We'll  gang  naemair  to  yon 
town  ?  I  think,  in  slowish  time,  it  would 
make  an  excellent  song.  I  am  highly  de- 
lighted with  it ;  and  if  you  should  think 
it  worthy  of  your  attention,  I  have  a  fair 
dame  in  my  eve  to  whom  I  would  conse- 
crate it. 

As  I  am  just  going  to  bed,  I  wish  you 
a  good  night. 


No.  LXXI 

MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 

25th  February,  1795. 
I  have  to  thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for 
two  epistles,  one  containing  Let  me  in  this 
ae  night ;  and  the  other  from  Ecclefechan, 
proving,  that  drunk  or  sober,  your  "mind 
is  never  muddy."  You  have  displayed 
great  address  in  the  above  song.  Her 
answer  is  excellent,  and  at  the  same  time, 
takes  away  the  indelicacy  that  otherwise 
would  have  attached  to  his  entreaties. 
I  like  the  song  as  it  now  stands,  very 
much. 

I  had  hopes  you  would  be  arrested 
some  days  at  Ecclefechan,  and  be  obliged 
to  beguile  the  tedious  forenoons  by  song- 
making.  It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  re- 
ceive the  verses  you  intend  for  O  wat  ye 
wha's  in  yon  town  ? 


No.  LXXII. 
MR.   BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 
May,  1795. 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  WOODLARK. 

O  stay,  sweet  warbling  woodlark,  stay, 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray. 
See  Poems,  p.  102. 

*  The  bard  must  have  been  tipsy  indeed,  to  abuse 
swoet  Ecctofecliari  at  this  rate,    E. 


232  LETTERS. 

Let  mo  know,  your  very  first  leisure, 
how  you  like  this  song. 

ON  CHLORIS  BEING  ILL. 
CHORUS. 

Long,  long  the  night, 

Heavy  comes  the  morrow, 

See  Poems,  p.  102. 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing  ?  The 
Irish  air,  Humours  of  Glen,  is  a  great  fa- 
vourite of  mine ;  and  as,  except  the  silly 
stuff  in  the  Poor  Soldier,  there  are  not 
any  decent  verses  for  it,  I  have  written 
for  it  as  follows : 

SONG. 

Their  groves  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foreign 
lands  reckon, 
Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt 
the  perfume ; 

See  Poems,  p.  102. 


Address  to  the  'Wood-Lark,  your  elegant 
Panegyric%n  Caledonia,  and  your  aftect- 
ino-  verses  on  Clitoris's  illness.  Every 
repeated  perusal  of  these  gives  new  de- 
light. The  other  song  to  "  Laddie,  lie 
near  me,"  though  not  equal  to  these,  is 
very  pleasing. 


No.  LXXIV. 
MR.  BURNS  TO    MR.  THOMSON. 

How  cruel  arc  the  parents, 
Who  riches  only  prize  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  102. 


SONG. 

'Twas  na  her  bonnie  blue  e'e  was  my 
ruin; 

Fair  tho'  she  be,  that  was  ne'er  my  undo- 
ing; 

See  Poems,  p.  102. 

Let  me  hear  from  you. 


No.  LXXIII. 

MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 

You  must  not  think,  my  good  Sir,  that 
I  have  any  intention  to  enhance  the  value 
of  my  gift,  when  I  say,  in  justice  to  the 
ingenious  and  worthy  artist,  that  the  de- 
sign and  execution  of  the  Cotter's  Satur- 
day Night  is,  in  my  opinion,  one  of  the 
happiest  productions  of  Allan's  pencil.  I 
shall  be  grievously  disappointed  if  you 
are  not  cmite  pleased  with  it. 

The  figure  intended  for  your  portrait, 
T  think  strikingly  like  you,  as  far  as  I  can 
remember  your  phiz.  This  should  make 
the  piece  interesting  to  your  family  every 
way. — Tell  me  whether  Mrs.  Burns  finds 
you  out  among  the  figures. 

I  cannot  express  the  feeling  of  admira- 
tion with  which  I  have  read  your  pathetic 


SONG. 

Mark  yonder  pornp  of  costly  fashion, 
Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride ;  ^ 

See  Poems,  p.  103. 

Well !  this  is  not  amiss.  You  see  how 
I  answer  your  orders ;  your  tailor  could 
not  be  more  punctual.  I  am  just  now  in 
a  high  fit  for  poetizing,  provided  that  the 
strait  jacket  of  criticism  don't  cure  me. 
If  you  can  in  a  post  or  two  administer  a 
little  of  the  intoxicating  portion  of  your 
applause,  it  will  raise  your  humble  ser- 
vant's frenzy  to  any  height  you  want.  I 
am  at  this  moment  "  holding  high  con- 
verse" with  the  Muses,  and  have  not  a 
word  to  throw  away  on  such  a  prosaic 
dog  as  you  are. 


No.  LXXV. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

May,  1795. 

Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your  elegant 
present :  though  I  am  ashamed  of  the  va 
lue  of  it  being  bestowed  on  a  man  who 
has  not  by  any  means  merited  such  an  in- 
stance of  kindness.  1  have  shown  it  to 
two  or  three  judges  of  the  first  abilities 
hero,  and  they  all  agree  with  me  in  class- 
ing it  as  a  first  rate  production.  My 
phis  is  sacken-speckle.,  that  the  very  joiner's 
apprentice  whom  Mrs.  Burns  employed 
to  break  up  the  parcel  (I  was  out  of  town 
that  day,)  knew  it  at  once. — My  most 
grateful  compliments  to  Allan,  who  has 
honoured  my  rustic  muse  so  much  with 
his  masterly  pencil.     One  strange  coin- 


LETTERS. 


233 


cidence  is,  that  the  little  one  who  is  ma- 
king the  felonious  attempt  on  the  cat's 
tail,  is  the  most  striking  likeness  of  an 
ill-decdie,  d — n'd,  xcee,  rumble-gairie,  ur- 
chin of  mine,  whom,  from  that  propensity 
to  witty  wickedness,  and  manfu'  mischief, 
which  even  at  two  days  auld,  I  foresaw 
would  form  the  striking  features  of  his 
disposition,  I  named  Willie  Nicol,  after  a 
certain  friend  of  mine,  who  is  one  of  the 
masters  of  a  grammar-school  in  a  city 
which  shall  be  nameless. 

Give  the  enclosed  epigram  to  my  much- 
valued  friend  Cunningham,  and  tell  him 
that  on  Wednesday  I  go  to  visit  a  friend 
of  his,  to  whom  his  friendly  partiality  in 
speaking  of  me,  in  a  manner  introduced 
me — I  mean  a  well-known  military  and 
literary  character,  Colonel  Dirom. 

You  do  not  tell  me  how  you  liked  my 
two  last  songs.     Are  they  condemned  ? 


No.  LXXVI. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 

13th  May,  1795. 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  find  that 
you  are  so  well  satisfied  with  Mr.  Allan's 
production.  The  chance  resemblance  of 
your  little  fellow,  whose  promising  dispo- 
sition appeared  so  very  early,  and  sug- 
gested whom  he  should  be  named  after, 
is  curious  enough.  I  am  acquainted  with 
that  person,  who  is  a  prodigy  of  learning 
and  genius,  and  a  pleasant  fellow,  though 
no  saint. 

You  really  make  me  blush  when  you 
tell  me  you  have  not  merited  the  drawing 
from  me.  I  do  not  think  I  can  ever  re- 
pay you,  or  sufficiently  esteem  and  re- 
spect you  for  the  liberal  and  kind  man- 
ner in  which  you  have  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  my  undertaking,  which  could  not 
have  been  perfected  without  you.  So  I 
beg  you  would  not  make  a  fool  of  me 
again,  by  speaking  of  obligation. 

I  like  your  two  last  songs  very  much, 
and  am  happy  to  find  you  are  in  such  a 
higb  fit  of  poetizing.  Long  may  it  last ! 
Clarke  has  made  a  fine  pathetic  air  to 
Mallet's  superlative  ballad  of  William 
and  Margaret,  and  is  to  give  it  ine  to  be 
enrolled  among  the  elect. 


No.  LXXVII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

In  Whistle,  and  Fll  come  to  you,  my  lad, 
the  iteration  of  that  line  is  tiresome  to  my 
ear.  Here  goes  what  I  think  is  an  im- 
provement. 

O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 
O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad ; 
Tho'  father  and  mother  and  a'  should  gae 

mad, 
Thy  Jeany  will  venture  wi'  ye  my  lad. 

In  fact,  a  fair  dame  at  whose  shrine,  I 
the  Priest  of  the  Nine,  offer  up  the  in- 
cense of  Parnassus ;  a  dame,  whom  the 
Graces  have  attired  in  witchcraft,  and 
whom  the  loves  have  armed  with  light- 
ning, a  Fair  One,  herself  the  heroine  of 
the  song,  insists  on  the  amendment :  and 
dispute  her  commands  if  you  dare  ! 

SONG. 

O  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 
Fair  tho'  the  lassie  be  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  103. 

Do  you  know  that  you  have  roused  the 
torpidity  of  Clarke  at  last  ?  He  has  re- 
quested me  to  write  three  or  four  songs 
for  him,  which  he  is  to  set  to  music  him- 
self. The  enclosed  sheet  contains  two 
songs  for  him,  which  please  to  present  to 
my  valued  friend  Cunningham. 

I  enclose  the  sheet  open,  both  for  your 
inspection,  and  that  you  may  copy  the 
song,  O  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier.  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  am  right ;  but  that 
song  pleases  me,  and  as  it  is  extremely 
probable  that  Clarke's  newly  roused  ce- 
lestial spark  will  be  soon  smothered  in 
the  fogs  of  indolence,  if  you  like  the  song, 
it  may  go  as  Scottish  verses,  to  the  air  of 
J  wish  my  love  was  in  a  mire  ;  and  poor 
Erskine's  English  lines  may  follow. 

I  enclose  you,  a  For  a'  that  and  a'  that, 
which  was  never  in  print, ;  it  is  a  much 
superior  song  to  mine.  I  have  been  told 
that  it  was  composed  by  a  lady. 

Now  spring  has  clad  the  prove  in  green, 
And  strew'd  the  lea  wi'  flowers; 

See  Poems,  p.  103. 


234 


LETTERS. 


O  bonnte  was  yon  rosy  brier 

That  blooms  sac  far  frae  haunt  o'  man ; 
See  Poems,  p.  104. 

Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  copy  of 
the  last  edition  of  my  poems,  presented 
to  the  lady,  whom,  in  so  many  fictitious 
reveries  of  passion,  but  with  the  most  ar- 
dent sentiments  of  real  friendship,  I  have 
so  often  sung  under  the  name  of  Chloris. 

Tis  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young,  fair 
friend, 
Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 

See  Poems,  p.  104. 


Unc  bagatelle  de  V  amitie. 


CoiLA. 


No.  LXXVIII. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  3d  Aug.  1795. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

Trns  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  a 
Dr.  Brianton,  who  has  read  your  works, 
and  pants  for  the  honour  of  your  acquain- 
tance. I  do  not  know  the  gentleman,  but 
his  friend,  who  applied  to  me  for  this  in- 
troduction, being  an  excellent  young  man, 
I  have  no  doubt  he  is  worthy  of  all  accep- 
tation. 

My  eyes  have  just  been  gladdened,  and 
my  mind  feasted,  with  your  last  packet — 
full  of  pleasant  things  indeed.  What  an 
imagination  is  yours  !  It  is  superfluous  to 
tell  you  that  I  am  delighted  with  all  the 
thiec  songs,  as  well  as  with  your  elegant 
and  tender  verses  to  Chloris. 

I  am  sorry  you  should  be  induced  to  al- 
ter O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad, 
to  the  prosaic  line,  Thy  Jeany  will  ven- 
ture wi'  ye  my  lad.  I  must  be  permitted 
to  say,  that  I  do  not  think  the  latter  either 
reads  or  sings  so  well  as  the  former.  I 
wish,  therefore,  you  would,  in  my  name 
petition  the  charming  Jeany  whoever  she 
be,  to  let  the  line  remain  unaltered.* 

I  should  be  happy  to  see  Mr.  Clarke 

*  The  editor,  who  han  heard  the  heroine  of  this  song 
sine  It  herself  in  the  very  spirit  of  arch  simplicity  that 
i!  requires,   think*  M.  Thomson's  petition  unreasona- 
1  '•       li  we  mistake  not,  this  is  the  same  lady  who  pro- 
tin  linei  to  the  tunc  of  Ray's  Wife,  ante,  p.  238. 


produce  a  few  airs  to  be  joined  to  your 
verses.  Every  body  regrets  his  writing 
so  very  little,  as  every  body  acknowledges 
his  ability  to  write  well.  Pray  was  the 
resolution  formed  cooly  before  dinner,  or 
was  it  a  midnight  vow,  made  over  a  bowl 
of  punch  with  the  bard  ? 

I  shall  not  fail  to  give  Mr.  Cunning- 
ham what  you  have  sent  him. 

P.  S.  The  lady's  For  a'  thai  and  a'  that, 
is  sensible  enough,  but  no  more  to  be  com- 
pared to  yours  than  I  to  Hercules. 


No.  LXXIX. 

MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.  THOMSON. 

Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I  wander  here ; 
See  Poems,  p.  104. 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing  ?  I  have 
written  it  within  this  hour  :  so  much  for 
the  speed  of  my  Pegasus,  but  what  say 
you  to  his  bottom  ? 


No.   LXXX- 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the 
lang  glen, 
And  sair  wi'  his  love  did  he  deave  me  ;* 

See  Poems,  p.  1 04 


Why,  why  tell  thy  lover, 
Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ? 

See  Poems,  p.  105. 

•  In  the  original  MS.  the  third  line  of  the  fourth  verse 
runs,  "  He  up  the  Gatcslack  to  my  black  cousin  Hess." 
Mr.  Thomson  objected  to  this  word,  as  well  as  to  the 
word,  Dalgarnock  in  the  next  verse.  Mr.  Burns  re- 
plies as  follows : 

"Gatcslack  is  the  name  of  a  particular  place,  a  kind 
of  passage  up  among  the  J,awther  hills,  on  the  confines 
of  this  county.  Dalgarnock  is  also  the  name  of  a  ro- 
mantic spot  near  the  Kith,  where  are  still  a  ruined 
church  and  burial-ground.  However,  let  the  first  run, 
He  up  the  lang  loan,"  &C. 

Tt  is  nlways  a  pity  to  throw  out  any  thing  that  gives 
locality  to  our  poet's  verses.    E. 


LETTERS. 


235 


Such  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  rhythm 
of  this  air,  that  I  find  it  impossible  to  make 
another  stanza  to  suit  it. 

I  am  at  present  quite  occupied  with  the 
charming  sensations  of  the  tooth-ach,  so 
have  not  a  word  to  spare. 


No.  LXXXI. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO   MR.  BURNS. 

2d  June,  1795. 

MY  DEAR  SIR, 

Your  English  verses  to  Let  me  in 
this  ae  night,  are  tender  and  beautiful ; 
and  your  ballad  to  the  "  Lothian  Lassie," 
is  a  masterpiece  for  its  humour  and  nai- 
vete. The  fragment  for  the  Caledonian 
Hunt  is  quite  suited  to  the  original  mea- 
sure of  the  air,  and,  as  it  plagues  you  so, 
the  fragment  must  content  it.  I  would 
rather,  as  I  said  before,  have  had  Bac- 
chanalian words,  had  it  so  pleased  the 
poet ;  but,  nevertheless,  for  what  we  have 
received,  Lord  make  us  thankful ! 


No.  LXXXII. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 
5th  Feb.  1796. 

O  Robby  Burns,  are  ye  sleeping  yet  ? 
Or  are  ye  wauking,  I  would  wit? 

The  pause  you  have  made,  my  dear 
Sir,  is  awful !  Am  I  never  to  hear  from 
you  again  ?  I  know  and  I  lament  how 
much  you  have  been  afflicted  of  late,  but 
I  trust  that  returning  health  and  spirits 
will  now  enable  you  to  resume  the  pen, 
and  delight  us  with  your  musings.  I  have 
still  about  a  dozen  Scotch  and  Irish  airs 
that  I  wish  "  married  to  immortal  verse." 
We  have  several  true  born  Irishmen  on 
the  Scottish  list ;  but  they  are  now  na- 
turalized, and  reckoned  our  own  good 
subjects.  Indeed  we  have  none  better. 
I  believe  I  before  told  you  that  I  have 
been  much  urged  by  some  friends  to  pub- 
lish a  collection  of  all  our  favourite  airs 
and  songs  in  octavo,  embellished  with  a 
number  of  etchingsby  our  ingenious  friend 
Allan  ; — what  is  your  opinion  of  this? 
Dd2 


No.  LXXXIII. 

MR.  BURNS   TO   MR.  THOMSON 

February,  1796. 
Mant  thanks,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your 

handsome  elegant  present,  to  Mrs.  B , 

and  for  my  remaining  vol.  of  P.  Pindar. — 
Peter  is  a  delightful  fellow,  and  a  first  fa- 
vourite of  mine.  I  am  much  pleased  with 
your  idea  of  publishing  a  collection  of  our 
songs  in  octavo,  with  etchings,  I  am  ex- 
tremely willing  to  lend  every  assistance 
in  my  power.  The  Irish  airs  I  shall 
cheerfully  undertake  the  task  of  finding 
verses  for. 

I  have  already,  you  know,  equipped 
three  with  words,  and  the  other  day  I 
strung  up  a  kind  of  rhapsody  to  another 
Hibernian  melody,  which  I  admire  much. 

HEY  FOR  A   LASS  Wl'  A  TOCHER. 

Awa    wi'   your  witchcraft    o'   beauty's 

alarms, 
The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your 

arms; 

See  Poems,  p.  105. 

If  this  will  do,  you  have  now  four  of 
my  Irish  engagement.  In  my  by-past 
songs  I  dislike  one  thing ;  the  name  of 
Chloris — I  meant  it  as  the  fictitious  name 
of  a  certain  lady :  but,  on  second  thoughts, 
it  is  a  high  incongruity  to  have  a  Greek 
appellation  to  a  Scottish  pastoral  ballad. 
— Of  this,  and  some  things  else,  in  my 
next :  I  have  more  amendments  to  pro- 
pose.— What  you  once  mentioned  of 
"  flaxen  locks"  is  just ;  they  cannot  enter 
into  an  elegant  description  of  beauty.  Of 
this  also  again — God  bless  you  1* 


No.  LXXXIV. 

MR.   THOMSON  TO  MR.  BURNS. 

Your  Hey  for  a  lass  wV  a  tocher,  is  a 
most  excellent  song,  and  with  you  the 
subject  is  something  new  indeed.  It  is 
the  first  time  I  have  seen  you  debasing 
the  god  of  soft  desire,  into  an  amateur  of 
acres  and  guineas — 

I  am  happy  to  find  you  approve  of  my 

*  Our  Toet  never  explained  what  name  lie  would 
have  8uh»titutcd  for  Chloris. 

Note  by  Mr.  Thomson. 


236 


LETTERS. 


proposed  octavo  edition.  Allan  lias  de- 
signed and  etched  about  twenty  plates, 
and  I  am  to  have  my  choice  of  them  for 
that  work.  Independently  of  the  Ho- 
garthian  humor  with  which  they  abound, 
they  exhibit  the  character  and  costume  of 
the  Scottish  peasantry  with  inimitable  feli- 
city. In  this  respect,  he  himself  says  they 
will  far  exceed  the  aquatinta  plates  he  did 
for  the  Gentle  Shepherd,  because  in  the 
etching  he  sees  clearly  what  he  is  doing, 
but  not  so  with  the  aquatinta,  which  he 
could  not  manage  to  his  mind. 

The  Dutch  boors  of  Ostade  are  scarce- 
ly more  characteristic  and  natural  than 
the  Scottish  figures  in  those  etchings. 


No.  LXXXV. 

MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

April,  1796. 

At.as,  my  dear  Thomson,  I  fear  it  will 
be  some  time  ere  I  tune  my  lyre  again ! 
"  By  Babel  streams  I  have  sat  and  wept," 
almost  ever  since  I  wrote  you  last :  I 
have  only  known  existence  by  the  pres- 
sure of  the  heavy  hand  of  sickness  and 
have  counted  time  by  the  repercussions 
of  pain !  Rheumatism,  cold  and  fever, 
have  formed  to  me  a  terrible  combination. 
I  close  my  eyes  in  misery,  and  open  them 
without  hope,  I  look  on  the  vernal  day, 
and  say,  with  poor  Fergusson — 

«'  Say,  wherefore  has  an  all-indulgent  Heaven 
Light  to  the  comfortless  and  wretched  given'? 

This  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  a  Mrs. 
Hyslop,  landlady  of  the  Globe  Tavern 
here,  which  for  these  many  years  has 
been  my  howff,  and  where  our  friend 
Clarke  and  I  have  had  many  a  merry 
squeeze.  I  am  highly  delighted  with  Mr. 
Allan's  etchings.  Woo'd  and  married 
an'  a\  is  admirable.  The  grovping  is  be- 
yond all  praise.  The  expression  of  the 
figures  conformable  to  the  story  in  the 
ballad,  is  absolutely  faultless  perfection. 
I  next  admire,  Turn-im-spikc.  What  I 
like  lea'st  is  Jenny  said  to  Jockey.  Be- 
sides the  female  being  in  her  apppear- 
ance  *****  if  you  take  her 
6tooping  into  the  account,  she  is  at  least 
two  inches  taller  than  her  lover.  Poor 
Cleghorn:  I  sincerely  sympathize  with 
him !  Happy  I  am  to  think  that  he  has 


yet  a  well  grounded  hope  of  health  and 
enjoyment  in  this  world.  As  for  me — 
but  that  is  a     *     *     *     *    *     subject ! 


No.  LXXXVI 

MR.  THOMSON   TO    MR.  BURNS. 

4th  May,  1796. 

I  need  not  tell  you,  my  good  Sir,  what, 
concern  the  receipt  of  your  last  gave  me, 
and  how  much  I  sympathize  in  your  suf- 
ferings. But  do  not  I  beseech  you,  give 
yourself  up  to  despondency,  nor  speak 
the  language  of  despair.  The  vigour  of 
your  constitution,  I  trust,  will  soon  set 
you  on  your  feet  again ;  and  then  it  is  to 
be  hoped  you  will  see  the  wisdom  and  the 
necessity  of  taking  due  care  of  a  life  so 
valuable  to  your  family,  to  your  friends, 
and  to  the  world. 

Trusting  that  your.,  next  will  bring 
agreeable  accounts  of  your  convales- 
cence, and  returning  good  spirits,  I  re- 
main, with  sincere  regard,  yours. 

P.  S.  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I  doubt  not,  deli- 
vered the  gold  seal  to  you  in  good  condi- 
tion. 


No.  LXXXVII. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

MY  DEAR.  SIR, 

I  once  mentioned  to  you  an  air  which 
I  have  long  admired — Urn's  a  health  to 
them  that's  awa,  hinnie,  but  I  forget  if  you 
took  any  notice  of  it.  I  have-  just  been 
trying  to  suit  it  with  verses ;  and  I  beg 
leave  to  recommend  the  air  to  your  at- 
tention once  more.    I  have  only  begun  it. 


Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 
Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear  ;* 

See  Poems,  p.  1 05 

*  In  the  letter  to  Mr.  Thomson,  the  three  first  stan- 
zas only  air  given,  and  Mr.  Thomson  supposed  our  po- 
et had  never  Rone  farther.  Among  his  MPS-  was, 
however,  found  the  fourth  stanza,  which  completes  this 
exquisite  song,  the  last  finished  offspring  of  his  muse 


LETTERS. 


237 


No.  LXXXVIfT. 


MR.  BURNS  TO   MR.   THOMSON. 

This  will  be  delivered  by  a  Mr.  Le- 
wars,  a  young  fellow  of  uncommon  merit. 
As  he  will  be  a  day  or  two  in  town,  you 
will  have  leisure  if  you  choose  to  write 
me  by  him ;  and  if  you  have  a  spare  half 
hour  to  spend  with  him,  I  shall  place 
your  kindness  to  my  account.  I  have  no 
copies  of  the  songs  I  have  sent  you,  and 
1  have  taken  a  fancy  to  review  them  all, 
and  possibly  may  mend  some  of  them  :  so, 
when  you  have  complete  leisure,  I  will 
thank  you  for  either  the  originals  or  co- 
pies.* I  had  rather  be  the  author  of  five 
well- written  songs,  than  often  otherwise. 
I  have  great  hopes  that  the  genial  influ- 
ence of  the  approaching  summer  will  set 
me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I  cannot  boast  of 
returning  health.  I  have  now  reason  to 
believe  that  my  complaint  is  a  flying  gout : 
— a  sad  business. 

Do  let  me  know  how  Cleghorn  is,  and 
remember  me  to  him. 

This  should  have  been  delivered  to  you 
a  month  ago.  I  am  still  very  poorly,  but 
should  like  much  to  hear  from  you. 


No.  LXXXIX. 
MR.  BURNS  TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

Brow,  onthe  Solway  Frith,  12th  July,  1796. 

After  all  my  boasted  independence, 
cursed  necessity  compels  me  to  implore 
you  for  five  pounds.  A  cruel  *  *  *  * 
of  a  haberdasher,  to  whom  T  owe  an  ac- 
count, taking  it  into  his  head  that  I  am 
dying,  has  commenced  a  process,  and  will 
infallibly  put  me  into  jail.  Bo,  for  God's 
sake,  send  me  that  sum,  and  that  by  re- 
turn of  post.  Forgive  me  this  earnest- 
ness, but  the  horrors  of  a  jail  have  made 
me  half  distracted.  I  do  not  ask '  all 
this  gratuitously ;  for,  upon  returning 
health,  I  hereby  promise  and  engage  to 
furnish  you  with  five  pounds'  worth  of 
the  neatest  song  genius  you  have  seen. 
I  tried  my  hand  on  Rothiemurchie  this 
morning.  The  measure  is  so  difficult, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  infuse  much  geni- 
us into  the  lines ;  they  are  on  the  other 
side.     Forgive,  forgive  me  ! 

*  It  is  needless  to  say   that  this  revisal  Burns  did 
not  live  to  perform.  E. 


SONG. 


CHOR1  9; 


Fairest  maid  tjn  Devak  banks, 

ChrystuL  Devon,  winding  Devon* 
See  Poems,  p.  106 


No.  XC. 
MR.  THOMSON   TO   MR.  BURNS. 
lAlhJuly,  1796. 

MI  DEAR  SIR, 

Ever  since  I  received  your  melan- 
choly letter  by  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I  have  been 
ruminating  in  what  manner  I  could  en- 
deavour to  alleviate  your  sufferings. 
Again  and  again  I  thought  of  a  pecunia- 
ry offer,  but  the  recollection  of  one  of 
your  letters  on  this  subject,  and  the  fear 
of  offending  your  independent  spirit, 
checked  my  resolution.  I  thank  you 
heartily  therefore  for  the  frankness  of 
your  letter  of  the  12th,  and  with  great 
pleasure  enclose  a  draft  for  the  very  sum 
I  proposed  sending.  Would  I  were 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  but  for  one 
day  for  your  sake  ! 

Pray,  my  good  Sir,  is  it  not  possible 
for  you  to  muster  a  volume  of  poetry  ?  If 
too  much  trouble  to  you  in  the  present 
state  of  your  health,  some  literary  friend 
might  be  found  here,  who  would  select 
and  arrange  from  your  manuscripts,  and 
take  upon  him  the  task  of  Editor.  In  the 
mean  time  it  could  be  advertised  to  be 
published  by  subscription.  Do  not  shun 
this  mode  of  obtaining  the  value  of  your 
labour:  remember  Pope  published  the 
Iliad  by  subscription.  Think  of  this,  my 
dear  Burns,  and  do  not  reckon  me  intru- 
sive with  my  advice.  You  are  too  well 
convinced  of  the  respect  and  friendship  I 
bear  you  to  impute  any  thing  I  say  to  an 
unworthy  motive.     Yours  faithfully. 

The  verses  to  Rothiemurchie  will  an- 
swer finely.  I  am  happy  to  see  you  can 
still  tune  your  lyre. 

*  This  song,  and  the  letter  enclosing  it,  are  written 
in  a  character  that  marks  the  very  feeble  state  of 
Burns's  bodily  strength.  Mr.  Syme  is  of  opinion  that 
he  could  not  have  been  in  any  danger  of  a  jail  at  Dum- 
fries, where  certainly  he  had  many  firm  friends  :  norun- 
cler  any  such  necessity  of  imploring  aid  from  Edinburgh. 
But  about  this  lime  his  reason  began  to  be  at  times  un- 
settled, and  the  horrors  of  a  jail  perpetually  haunted 
bis  imagination.  He  died  on  the  "1st  of  this  month    E. 


238 


LETTERS. 


EXTRACT  OF  A  LETTER, 

FROM  GILBERT    BURNS  TO  DR.   CURR1E. 

It  may  gratify  curiosity  to  know  some  par- 
ticulars of  the  history  of  the  preceding 
Poems,*  on  which  the  celebrity  of  our 
Hard  has  been  hitherto  founded;  and 
with  this  view  the  following  extract  is 
made  from  a  letter  of  Gilbert  Burns,  the 
brother  of  our  poet,  and  his  friend  and 
confidant  from  his  earliest  years. 


Mossgill,  2d  April,  1798. 


Your  letter  of  the  14th  of  March  I 
received  in  due  course,  but  from  the  hurry 
of  the  season  have  been  hitherto  hindered 
from  answering  it.  I  will  now  try  to  give 
you  what  satisfaction  I  can,  in  regard  to 
the  particulars  you  mention.  I  cannot 
pretend  to  be  very  accurate  in  respect  to 
the  dates  of  the  poems,  but  none  of  them, 
except  Winter  a  Dirge,  (which  was  a  ju- 
venile production,)  The  Death  and  Dying 
Words  of  Poor  Mail  lie,  and  some  of  the 
songs,  were  composed  before  the  year 
1784.  The  circumstances  of  the  poor 
sheep  were  pretty  much  as  he  ha3  de- 
scribed them.  He  had  partly  by  way  of 
frolic,  bought  a  ewe  and  two  lambs  from 
a  neighbour,  and  6he  was  tethered  in  a 
field  adjoining  the  house  at  Lochlic.  He 
and  I  were  going  out,  with  our  teams,  and 
our  two  younger  brothers  to  drive  for  us, 
at  mid-day ;  when  Hugh  Wilson,  a  curi- 
ous looking  awkward  boy,  clad  in  plaid- 
ing,  came  to  us  with  much  anxiety  in  his 
face,  with  the  information  that  the  ewe 
had  entangled  herself  in  the  tether,  and 
was  lying  in  the  ditch.  Robert  was  much 
tickled  with  Huoc's  appearance  and  pos- 
tures on  the  occasion.  PoorMaillie  was 
set  to  rights,  and  when  we  returned  from 
the  plough  in  the  evening,  he  repeated  to 
me  her  Death  and  Dying  Words,  pretty 
much  in  the  way  they  now  stand. 

Among  the  earliest  of  his  poems  was 
the  Epistle  to  Davie.  Robert  often  com- 
posed without  any  regular  plan.  When 
any  thing  made  a  strong  impression  on  his 
mind,  so  as  to  rouse  it  to  poetic  exertion, 
he  would  give  way  to  the  impulse,  and 

*  This  refers  to  the  pieces  Inserted  before  prige  70  of 
tlie  Vocnis. 


embody  the  thought  in  rhyme.  If  he  hit 
on  two  or  three  stanzas  to  please  him,  he 
would  then  think  of  proper  introductory, 
connecting,  and  concluding  stanzas ;  hence 
the  middle  of  a  poem  was  often  first  pro- 
duced. It  was,  I  think,  in  summer  1784, 
when  in  the  interval  of  harder  labour,  he 
and  I  were  weeding  in  the  garden  (kail- 
yard,) that  he  repeated  to  me  the  princi- 
pal part  of  this  epistle.  I  believe  the  first 
idea  of  Robert  becoming  an  author  was 
started  on  this  occasion.  I  was  much 
pleased  with  the  epistle,  and  said  to  him 
I  was  of  opinion  it  would  bear  being  print- 
ed, and  that  it  would  be  well  received  by 
people  of  taste  ;  that  I  thought  it  at  least 
equal  if  not  superior  to  many  of  Allan 
Ramsay's  epistles  ;  and  that  the  merit  of 
these,  and  much  other  Scotch  poetry, 
seemed  to  consist  principally  in  the  knack 
of  the  expression,  but  here,  there  was  a 
train  of  interesting  sentiment,  and  the 
Scoticismof  the  language  scarcely  seemed 
affected,  but  appeared  to  be  the  natural 
language  of  the  poet ;  that,  besides,  there 
was  certainly  some  novelty  in  a  poet  point- 
ing out  the  consolations  that  were  in  store 
for  him  when  he  should  go  a-begging. 
Robert  seemed  very  well  pleased  with 
my  criticism,  and  we  talked  of  sending  it 
to  some  magazine,  but  as  this  plan  afford- 
ed no  opportunity  of  knowing  how  it 
would  take,  the  idea  was  dropped. 

It  was,  I  think,  in  the  winter  following, 
as  we  were  going  together  with  carts  for 
coal  to  the  family  fire  (and  I  could  yet  point 
out  the  particular  spot,)  that  the  author 
first  repeated  to  me  the  Address  to  the  Dcil. 
The  curious  idea  of  such  an  address  was 
suggested  to  him  by  running  over  in  his 
mind  the  many  ludicrous  accounts  and  re- 
presentations we  have,  from  various  quar- 
ters, of  this  august  personage.  Death 
and  Doctor  Hornbook,  though  not  pub- 
lished in  the  Kilmarnock  edition,  was 
produced  early  in  the  year  1785.  The 
Schoolmaster  of  Tarbolton  parish,  to  eke 
up  the  scanty  subsistence  allowed  to  that 
useful  class  of  men,  had  set  up  a  shop  o 
grocery  goods.  Having  accidentally  fall- 
en in  witli  some  medical  books,  and  be- 
come most  hobby-horsically  attached  to 
the  study  of  medicine,  he  had  added  the 
sale  of  a  few  medicines  to  his  little  trade. 
He  had  got  a  shop-bill  printed,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  which,  overlooking  his  own  inca- 
pacity, he  had  advertised,  that  Advice 
would  be  given  in  "  common  disorders  at 
the  shop  gratis."  Robert  was  at  a  ma- 
son mooting  in  Tarbolton,  when  the  Do- 


LETTERS. 


239 


minie  unfortunately  made  too  ostentatious 
a  display  of  his  medical  skill.  As  he 
parted  in  the  evening  from  this  mixture 
of  pedantry  and  physic,  at  the  place  where 
he  describes  his  meeting  with  Death,  one 
of  those  floating  ideas  of  apparition  he 
mentions  in  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore, 
crossed  his  mind :  this  set  him  to  work 
for  the  rest  of  the  way  home.  These  cir- 
cumstances he  related  when  he  repeated 
the  verses  to  me  next  afternoon,  as  I  was 
holding  the  plough,  and  he  was  letting 
the  water  off  the  field  beside  me.  The 
Epistle  to  John  Lapraik  was  produced 
exactly  on  the  occasion  described  by  the 
author.  He  says  in  that  poem,  On  fast- 
en-e'en, we  had  a  rockin.  I  believe  he  has 
omitted  the  word  rocking  in  the  glossary. 
It  is  a  term  derived  from  those  primitive 
times,  when  the  countrywomen  employed 
their  spare  hours  in  spinning  on  the  rack, 
or  distaff.  This  simple  implement  is  a 
very  portable  one,  and  well  fitted  to  the 
social  inclination  of  meeting  in  a  neigh- 
bour's house;  hence  the  phrase  of  going 
a-rocking,  or  with  the  rock.  As  the  con- 
nexion the  phrase  had  with  the  implement 
was  forgotten,  when  the  rock  gave  place 
to  the  spinning-wheel,  the  phrase  came 
to  be  used  by  both  sexes  on  social  occa- 
sions, and  men  talk  of  going  with  their 
rocks  as  well  as  women. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  rockings  at  our 
house  when  we  had  twelve  or  fifteen  young 
people  with  their  rocks,  that  Lapraik' s 
song  beginning — "  When  I  upon  thy  bo- 
som lean,"  was  sung,  and  we  were  in- 
formed who  was  the  author.  Upon  this, 
Robert  wrote  his  first  epistle  to  Lapraik; 
and  his  second  in  reply  to  his  answer. 
The  verses  to  the  Mouse  and  Mountain 
Daisy  were  composed  on  the  occasions 
mentioned,  and  while  the  author  was  hold- 
ing the  plough ;  I  could  point  out  the  par- 
ticular spot  where  each  was  composed. 
Holding  the  plough  was  a  favourite  situ- 
ation with  Robert  for  poetic  composition, 
and  some  of  his  best  verses  were  produced 
while  he  was  at  that  exercise.  Several 
of  the  poems  were  produced  for  the  pur- 
pose of  bringing  forward  some  favourite 
sentiment  of  the  author.  He  used  to  re- 
mark to  me,  that  he  could  not  well  con- 
ceive a  more  mortifying  picture  of  human 
life,  than  a  man  seeking  work.  In  cast- 
ing about  in  his  mind  how  this  sentiment 
might  be  brought  forward,  the  elegy  Man 
was  made  to  mourn,  was  composed.  Ro- 
bert had  frequently  remarked  to  me  that 
ho  thought  there  was  something  peculiar- 


ly venerable  in  the  phrase,  "  Let  us  wor- 
ship God,"  used  by  a  decent,  sober  head 
of  a  family,  introducing  family  worship. 
To  this  sentiment  of  the  author  the  world 
is  indebted  for  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 
The  hint  of  the  plan,  and  title  of  the  poem, 
were  taken  from  Fergusson's  Farmer's 
Ingle.  When  Robert  had  not  some  plea- 
sure in  view,  in  which  I  was  not  thought 
fit  to  participate,  we  used  frequently  to 
walk  together,  when  the  weather  was  fa- 
vourable, on  the  Sunday  afternoons  (those 
precious  breathing  times  to  the  labouring 
part  of  the  community,)  and  enjoyed  such 
Sundays  as  would  make  one  regret  to  see 
their  number  abridged.  It  was  in  one  of 
these  walks,  that  I  first  had  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  author  repeat  the  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night.  I  do  not  recollect  to 
have  heard  or  read  any  thing  by  which  I 
was  more  highly  electrified.  The  fifth  and 
sixth  stanzas,  and  the  eighteenth,  thrilled 
with  peculiar  ecstacy  through  my  soul. 
I  mention  this  to  you,  that  you  may  see 
what  hit  the  taste  of  unlettered  criticism. 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  if  the  enlighten- 
ed mind  and  refined  taste  of  Mr.  Roscoe, 
who  has  borne  such  honourable  testimony 
to  this  poem,  agrees  with  me  in  the  selec- 
tion. Fergusson,  in  his  Hallow  Fair  of 
Edinburgh,  I  believe,  likewise  furnished 
a  hint  of  the  title  and  plan  of  the  Holy- 
Fair.  The  farcical  scene  the  poet  there 
describes  was  often  a  favourite  field  of  his 
observation,  and  the  most  of  the  incidents 
he  mentions  had  actually  passed  before 
his  eyes.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  men- 
tion that  the  Lament  was  composed  on 
that  unfortunate  passage  in  his  matrimo- 
nial history,  which  I  have  mentioned  in 
my  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  after  the  first 
distraction  of  his  feelings  had  a  little  sub- 
sided. The  Tale  of  Twa  Dogs  was  com- 
posed after  the  resolution  of  publishing 
was  nearly  taken.  Robert  had  had  a  dog, 
which  he  called  Luath,  that  was  a  great 
favourite.  The  dog  had  been  killed  by 
the  wanton  cruelty  of  some  person  the 
night  before  my  father's  death.  Robert 
said  to  me,  that  he  should  like  to  confer 
such  immortality  as  he  could  bestow  upon 
his  old  friend  Luath,  and  that  he  had  a 
great  mind  to  introduce  something  into 
the  book,  under  the  title  of  Stanzas  to  the 
Memory  of  a  quadruped  Friend  ;  but  this 
plan  was  given  up  for  the  Tale  as  it  now 
stands.  Caesar  was  merely  the  creature 
of  the  poet's  imagination,  created  for  the 
purpose  of  holding  chat  with  his  favourite 
Luath.  The  first  time  Robert  heard  the 
spinnet  played  upon,  was  at  the  house  of 


240 


LETTERS. 


Dr.  Lawrjo,  then  minister  of  the  parish  of 
Loudon,  now  in  Glasgow,  having  given 
up  the  parish  in  favour  of  his  son.  Dr. 
Lawrie  has  several  daughters :  one  of 
them  played;  the  father  and  mother  led 
down  the  dance;  the  rest  of  the  sisters, 
the  brother,  the  poet,  and  the  other 
guests,  mixed  in  it.  It  was  a  delightful 
family  scene  for  our  poet,  then  lately  in- 
troduced to  the  world.  His  mind  was 
roused  to  a  poetic  enthusiasm,  and  the 
stanzas/?.  44.  of  the  Poems,  were  left  in 
the  room  where  he  slept.  It  was  to 
Dr.  Lawrie  that  Dr.  Blacklock's  letter 
was  addressed,  which  my  brother,  in  his 
letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  mentions  as  the  rea- 
son of  his  going  to  Edinburgh. 

When  my  father  feued  his  little  proper- 
ty near  Alloway-Kirk,  the  wall  of  the 
church-yard  had  gone  to  ruin,  and  cattle 
had  free  liberty  of  pasturing  in  it.  My 
father,  with  two  or  three  other  neigh- 
bours, joined  in  an  application  to  the 
town  council  of  Ayr,  who  were  superiors 
of  the  adjoining  land,  for  liberty  to  re- 
build it,  and  raised  by  subscription  a  sum 
for  enclosing  this  ancient  cemetery  with 
a  wall ;  hence  he  came  to  consider  it  as 
his  burial-place,  and  we  learned  that  re- 
verence for  it  people  generally  have  for 
the  burial-place  of  their  ancestors.  My 
brother  was  living  in  Ellisland,  when 
Captain  Grose,  on  his  peregrinations 
through  Scotland,  staid  some  time  at 
Carsehouse,  m  the  neighbourhood,  with 
Captain  Robert  Riddel,  of  Glen-Riddel, 
a  particular  friend  of  my  brother's.  The 
Antiquarian  and  the  poet  were  "  Unco 
pack  and  thick  thegither."  Robert  re- 
quested of  Captain  Grose,  when  he  should 
come  to  Ayrshire,  that  he  would  make  a 
drawing  of  Alloway-Kirk,  as  it  was  the 
burial-place  of  his  father,  and  where  he 
himself  had  a  sort  of  claim  to  lay  down 
his  bones  when  they  should  be  no  longer 
serviceable  to  him ;  and  added  by  way  of 
encouragement,  that  it  was  the  scene  of 
many  a  good  story  of  witches  and  appari- 
tions, of  which  he  knew  the  Captain  was 
very  fond.  The  Captain  agreed  to  the 
request,  provided  the  poet  would  furnish 
a  witch-story,  to  be  printed  along  with  it. 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  was  produced  on  this  oc- 
casion, and  was  first  published  in  Grose's 
Antiquities  of  Scotland. 

The  poem  is  founded  on  a  traditional 
story-  The  loading  circumstances  of  a 
man  riding  home  very  late  from  Ayr,  in 
a  stormy  night,  his  seeing  a  light  in  Al- 


loway-Kirk, his  having  the  curiosity  to 
look  in,  his  seeing  a  dance  of  witches, 
with  the  devil  playing  on  the  bagpipe  to 
them,  the  scanty  covering  of  one  of  the 
witches,  which  made  him  so  far  forget 
himself,  as  to  cry  Weel  loupen,  short 
sark  I — with  the  melancholy  catastrophe 
of  the  piece  is  all  a  true  story,  that  can 
bo  well  attested  by  many  respectable  old 
people  in  that  neighbourhood. 

I  do  not  at  present  recollect  any  cir- 
cumstances respecting  the  other  poems, 
that  could  be  at  all  interesting ;  even 
some  of  those  I  have  mentioned,  I  am 
afraid,  may  appear  trifling  enough,  but 
you  will  only  make  use  of  what  appears 
to  you  of  consequence. 

The  following  Poems  in  the  first  Edin- 
burgh edition,  were  not  in  that  published 
in  Kilmarnock.  Death  and  Dr.  Horn- 
book ;  the  Brigs  of  Ayr;  the  Calf;  (the 
poet  had  been  with  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton 
in  the  morning,  who  said  jocularly  to  him 
when  he  was  going  to  church,  in  allusion 
to  the  injunction  of  some  parents  to  their 
children,  that  he  must  be  sure  to  bring 
him  a  note  of  the  sermon  at  mid-day : 
this  address  to  the  Reverend  Gentleman 
on  his  text  was  accordingly  produced.) 
The  Ordination  ;  The  Address  to  the  Unco 
Quid;  Tarn  Samson's  Elegy;  A  Winter 
Night ;  Stanzas  on  the  same  Occasion  as 
the  preceding  Prayer ;  Verses  left  at  a 
Reverend  Friend's  House;  The  First 
Psalm  ;  Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  vi- 
olent Anguish;  the  First  Six  Verses  of 
the  Ninetieth  Psalm;  Verses  to  Miss 
Logan,  with  Bealtie's  Poems  ;  To  a  Hag- 
gis ;  Address  to  Edinburgh  ;  John  Bar- 
leycorn ;  When  Guilford  Guid ;  Behind 
yon  hills  where  Stinvhar  flows ;  Green 
grow  the  Rashes  ;  Again  rejoicing  Nature 
sees  ;  The  gloomy  Night  ;  No  Churchman 
I  am. 

If  you  have  never  seen  the  first  edition, 
it  will,  perhaps,  not  be  amiss  to  transcribe 
the  preface,  that  you  may  see  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  Poet  made  his  first  awe- 
struck approach  to  the  bar  of  public  judg- 
ment. 

[Here  followed  the  Preface  as  given  in 
the  first  page  of  the  Poems. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  most  obedient  humble  Servant, 

GILBERT  BURNS. 
dr.  currie,  Liverpool. 


LETTERS. 


241 


To  this  history  of  the  poems  winch  are 
contained  in  this  volume,  it  may  be  added, 
that  our  author  appears  to  have  made  lit- 
tle alteration  in  them  after  their  original 
composition,  except  in  some  few  instan- 
ces where  considerable  additions  have 
been  introduced.  After  he  had  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  public  by  his  first  edi- 
tion, various  criticisms  were  offered  him 
on  the  peculiarities  of  his  style,  as  well  as 
of  his  sentiments ;  and  some  of  these, 
which  remain  among  his  manuscripts,  are 
by  persons  of  great  taste  and  judgment. 
Some  few  of  these  criticisms  he  adopted, 
but  the  far  greater  part  he  rejected ;  and, 
though  something  has  by  this  means  been 
lost  in  point  of  delicacy  and  correctness, 
yet  a  deeper  impression  is  left  of  the 
strength  and  originality  of  his  genius. 
The  firmness  of  our  poet's  character, 
arising  from  a  just  confidence  in  his  own 
powers,  may,  in  part,  explain  his  tena- 
ciousness  of  his  peculiar  expressions ;  but 
it  may  be  in  some  degree  accounted  for 
also,  by  the  circumstances  under  which 
the  poems  were  composed.  Burns  did 
not,  like  men  of  genius  born  under  hap- 
pier auspices,  retire,  in  the  moment  of  in- 
spiration, to  the  silence  and  solitude  of 
his  study,  and  commit  his  verses  to  paper 
as  they  arranged  themselves  in  his  mind. 
Fortune  did  not  afford  him  this  indulgence. 
It  was  during  the  toils  of  daily  labour 
that  his  fancy  exerted  itself;  the  muse, 
as  he  himself  informs  us,  found  him  at  the 
plough.  In  this  situation,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  fix  his  verses  on  his  memory;  and 
it  was  often  many  days,  nay  weeks,  after 
a  poem  was  finished,  before  it  was  writ- 
ten down.  During  all  this  time,  by  fre- 
quent repetition,  the  association  between 
the  thought  and  the  expression  was  con- 
firmed, and  the  impartiality  of  taste  with 
which  written  language  is  reviewed  and 
retouched  after  it  has  faded  on  the  me- 
mory, could  not  in  such  instances  be 
exerted.  The  original  manuscripts  of 
many  of  his  poems  are  preserved,  and 
they  differ  in  nothing  material  from  the 
last  printed  edition. — Some  few  varia- 
tions may  be  noticed. 

1.  In  The  Author's  earned  Cry  and 
Prayer  after  the  stanza  beginning, 

F.rskine,  a  spunkic,  Norland  liillie, 

there  appears,  in  his  book  of  manuscripts, 
the  following : 

Then,  Sodger  Hugh,  my  watchman  stented, 
If  Bardies  e'er  are  represented  ; 


I  ken  if  that  your  sword  were  wanted 
Ye'd  lend  your  hand  ; 

But  when  there's  ought  to  say  Riient  it, 
Yc're  at  a  stand. 

Sodger  Hugh,  is  evidently  the  present 
Earl  of  Eglintoun,  then  Colonel  Montgo- 
mery of  Coilsfield,  and  representing  in 
parliament  the  county  of  Ayr.  Why  this 
was  left  out  in  printing  does  not  appear. 
The  noble  earl  will  not  be  sorry  to  see 
this  notice  of  him,  familiar  though  it  be, 
by  a  bard  whose  genius  he  admired,  and 
whose  fate  he  lamented. 

2.  In  The  Address  to  the  Deil,  the  se- 
cond stanza  ran  originally  thus : 

Lang  syne  in  Eden's  happy  scene, 
When  strappin  Adam's  days  was  green, 
And  Eve  was  like  my  bonnic  Jean, 

My  dearest  part, 
A  dancin,  sweet,  young,  handsome  quean, 

Wi'  guiltless  heart. 

3.  In  The  Elegy  on  poor  Maillie,  the 
stanza  beginning, 

She  was  nae  get  o'  moorland  tips, 

was,  at  first,  as  follows : 

She  was  na  get  o'  runted  rams, 

Wi'  woo'  like  goats,  and  legs  like  trams ; 

She  was  the  flower  o'  Fairlee  lambs, 

A  famous  breed ; 
Now  Robin,  greetin,  chows  the  hams 
O'  Maillie  dead. 

It   were   a  pity  that  the  Fairlee  lambs 
should  lose  the  honor  once  intended  them. 

4.  But  the  chief  variations  are  found 
in  the  poems  introduced  for  the  first  time, 
in  the  edition  of  two  volumes,  small  octavo, 
published  in  1792.  Of  the  \ioem  written  in 
Friar' s-Carse  Hermitage,  there  are  seve- 
ral editions,  and  one  of  these  has  nothing 
in  common  with  the  printed  poem  but  the 
first  four  lines.  The  poem  that  is  pub- 
lished, which  was  his  second  effort  on  the 
subject,  received  considerable  alterations 
in  printing. 

Instead  of  the  six  lines  beginning, 

Say,  man's  true,  genuine  estimate, 

in  manuscript  the  following  are  inserted  : 

Say,  the  criterion  of  their  fate, 
'lir  Important  query  of  their  state. 
Is  not,  ail  thou  high  or  low? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  1 


242 


LETTERS. 


Wert  thou  cottager  or  king  ? 
Prince  or  peasant?— no  such  tiling. 


5.  The  Epistle  to  R.  G.  Esq.  of  F. 
that  is,  to  R.  Graham,  Esq.  of  Fintra, 
also  urdcrwent  considerable  alterations, 
as  may  be  collected  from  the  General 
Correspondence.  The  style  of  poetry 
was  new  to  our  poet,  and,  though  he  was 
fitted  to  excel  in  it,  it  cost  him  more 
trouble  than  his  Scottish  poetry.  On 
the  contrary,  Tarn  o'  Shanter  seems  to 
have  issued  perfect  from  the  author's 
brain.  The  only  considerable  alteration 
made  on  reflection,  is  the  omission  of  four 
lines,  which  had  been  inserted  after  the 
poem  was  finished,  at  the  end  of  the 
dreadful  catalogue  of  the  articles  found 
on  the  "  haly  table,"  and  which  appeared 
in  the  first  edition  of  the  poem,  printed 
separately — They  came  after  the  line, 

Which  even  to  name  would  be  unlawfu', 

and  are  as  follows, 

Three  lawyers'  tongues  turn'd  inside  out, 
Wi'  liesseam'd  like  a  beggar's  clout, 
And  priests'  heart,  rotten,  black  as. muck, 
Lay,  stinking  vile,  in  every  neuk. 

These  lines  which,  independent  of  other 
objections,  interrupt  and  destroy  the  emo- 
tions of  terror  which  the  preceding  de- 
scription had  excited,  were  very  properly 
left  out  of  the  printed  collection,  by  the 
advice  of  Mr.  Fraser  Tytler;  to  which 
Burns  seems  to  have  paid  much  defe- 
rence.* 

6.  The  Address  to  the  shade  of  Thom- 
son, began  in  the  first  manuscript  copy  in 
the  following  manner : 

While  cold-eye'd  Spring,  a  virgin  coy, 

Unfolds  her  verdant  mantle  sweet; 
Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  joy, 

A  carpet  for  her  youthful  feet; 
While  Summer,  with  a  matron's  grace, 

Walks  stately  in  the  cooling  shade  ; 
And,  oft  delighted,  loves  to  trace 

The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade ; 
While  Autumn,  benefactor  kind, 

With  age's  hoary  honours  clad, 
Surveys  with  self-approving  mind, 

Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed,  &c. 


•  These  four  linos  have  been  inadvertently  replaced 
in  the  copy  of  Turn  o'  Shanter,  published  in  the  first 
volume  of  the  "Poetry,  Original  and  Selected,"  of 
lirasli  and  Eeid,  of  Glasgow  \  and  to  this  circumstance 
is  owing  ihelr  being  noticed  here.  As  our  poet  delibe- 
rately rejected  them,  it  is  hoped  that  no  future  printer 
will  insert  them. 


By  the  alteration  in  the  printed  poem,  it 
may  be  questioned  whether  the  poetry  is 
much  improved ;  the  poet  however  has 
found  means  to  introduce  the  shades  of 
Dryburgh,  the  residence  of  the  Earl  of 
Buchan,  at  whose  request  these  verses 
were  written. 

These  observations  might  be  extended, 
but  what  are  already  offered  will  satisfy 
curiosity,  and  there  is  nothing  of  any  im- 
portance that  could  be  added. 


THE  FOLLOWING  LETTER 

Of  Burns,  which  contains  some  hints  rela- 
tive to  the  origin  of  his  celebrated  talc  oj 
"  Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  the  Publishers  trust, 
will  be  found  interesting  to  every  reader 
of  his  works.  There  appears  no  reason 
to  doubt  of  its  being  genuine,  though  it 
has  not  been  inserted  in  his  correspon- 
dence published  by  Dr.  Currie. 


TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  ESQ.  F.  A.  S.* 

Among  the  many  witch  stories  I  have 
heard  relating  to  Alloway  kirk,  I  distinctly 
remember  only  two  or  three. 

Upon  a  stormy  night,  amid  whistling 
squalls  of  wind,  and  bitter  blasts  of  hail ; 
in  short  on  such  a  night  as  the  devil  would 
chuse  to  take  the  air  in ;  a  farmer  or  far- 
mer's servant  was  plodding  and  plashing 
homeward  with  his  plough-irons  on  his 
shoulder,  having  been  getting  some  re- 
pairs on  them  at  a  neighbouring  smithy. 
His  way  lay  by  the  kirk  of  Alloway,  and 
being  rather  on  the  anxious  look  out  in 
approaching  a  place  so  well  known  to  be 

*  This  Letter  was  first  published  in  the  Ccnsura  Li- 
teraria,  1786,  and  was  communicated  to  the  Editor  of 
that  work  by  Mr.  Gilchrist  of  Stamford,  accompanied 
with  the  following  remark. 

"In  a  collection  of  miscellaneous  papers  of  the  Anti- 
quary Grose,  which  I  purchased  a  few  years  since,  I 
found  the  following  letter  written  to  him  by  Burns.when 
the  former  was  collecting  the  Antiquities  of  Scotland: 
Winn  I  premise  it  was  on  the  second  tradition  that  ho 
afterwards  formed  the  inimitable  talc  of '  Tarn  o'  Shan- 
ter,' I  cannot  doubt  of  its  being  read  with  great  interost. 
It  were  '  burning  day  light'  to  point  out  toa  reader  (and 
who  is  not  a  reader  of  Hums  ?)  the  thoughts  lie  after- 
wards transplanted  into  the  rhythmical  narrative. 

O.  G. 


LETTERS. 


243 


a  favourite  haunt  of  the  devil  and  the  de- 
vil's friends  and  emissaries,  he  was  struck 
aghast  by  discovering  through  the  horrors 
of  the  storm  and  stormy  night,  a  light, 
which  on  his  nearer  approach  plainly 
showed  itself  to  proceed  from  the  haunted 
edifice.  Whether  he  had  been  fortified 
from  above  on  his  devout  supplication,  as 
is  customary  with  people  when  they  sus- 
pect the  immediate  presence  of  Satan,  or 
whether,  according  to  another  custom,  he 
had  got  courageously  drunk  at  the  smithy, 
I  will  not  pretend  to  determine ;  but  so  it 
was  that  he  ventured  to  go  up  to,  nay  into 
the  very  kirk.  As  good  luck  would  have 
it  his  temerity  came  off  unpunished. 

The  members  of  the  infernal  junto  were 
all  out  on  some  midnight  business  or  other, 
and  he  saw  nothing  but  a  kind  of  kettle  or 
caldron  depending  from  the  roof,  over  the 
fire,  simmering  some  heads  of  unchristen- 
ed  children,  limbs  of  executed  malefac- 
tors, &c.  for  the  business  of  the  night. — 
It  was  in  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound,  with 
the  honest  ploughman :  so  without  cere- 
mony he  unhooked  the  caldron  from  off 
the  fire,  and  pouring  out  the  damnable  in- 
gredients, inverted  it  on  his  head,  and 
carried  it  fairly  home,  where  it  remained 
long  in  the  family,  a  living  evidence  of 
the  truth  of  the  story. 

Another  story  which  I  can  prove  to  be 
equally  authentic,  was  as  follows : 

On  a  market  day  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  a 
farmer  from  Carrick,  and  consequently 
whose  way  laid  by  the  very  gate  of  Allo- 
way  kirk-yard,  in  order  to  cross  the  river 
Doon  at  the  old  bridge,  which  is  about 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  farther  on 
than  the  said  gate,  had  been  detained  by 
his  business,  till  by  the  time  he  reached 
Alloway  it  was  the  wizard  hour,  between 
night  and  morning. 

Though  he  was  terrified  with  a  blaze 
streaming  from  the  kirk,  yet  as  it  is  a  well- 
known  fact  that  to  turn  back  on  these  oc- 
casions is  running  by  far  the  greatest  risk 
of  mischief,  he  prudently  advanced  on  his 
road.  When  he  had  reached  the  gate  of 
the  kirk-yard,  he  was  surprised  and  en- 
tertained, through  the  ribs  and  arches  of 
an  old  Gothic  window,  which  still  faces 
the  highway,  to  see  a  dance  of  witches 
merrily  footing  it  round  their  old  sooty 
blackguard  master,  who  was  keeping  them 
E  c 


all  alive  with  the  power  of  his  bagpipe. 
The  farmer  stopping  his  horse  to  observe 
them  a  little,  could  plainly  descry  the 
faces  of  many  old  women  of  his  acquain- 
tance and  neighbourhood.  How  the  gen- 
tlemen was  dressed,  tradition  does  not  say ; 
but  the  ladies  were  all  in  their  smocks  : 
and  one  of  them  happening  unluckily  to 
have  a  smock  which  was  considerably  too 
short  to  answer  all  the  purposes  of  that 
piece  of  dress,  our  farmer  was  so  tickled, 
that  he  involuntarily  burst  out,  with  a 
loud  laugh,  "  Weel  luppen,  Maggy  wi* 
the  short  sark  !"  and  recollecting  himself, 
instantly  spurred  his  horse  to  the  top  of 
his  speed.  I  need  not  mention  the  uni- 
versally known  fact,  that  no  diabolical 
power  can  pursue  you  beyond  the  middle 
of  a  running  stream.  Lucky  it  was  for 
the  poor  farmer  that  the  river  Doon  was 
so  near,  for  notwithstanding  the  speed  of 
his  horse,  which  was  a  good  one,  against 
he  reached  the  middle  of  the  arch  of  the 
bridge,  and  consequently  the  middle  of 
the  stream,  the  pursuing  vengeful  hags, 
were  so  close  at  his  heels,  that  one  of 
them  actually  sprung  to  seize  him  ;  but  it 
was  too  late,  nothing  was  on  her  side  of 
the  stream  but  the  horse's  tail,  which  im- 
mediately gave  way  at  her  infernal  grip, 
as  if  blasted  by  a  stroke  of  lightning  ;  but 
the  farmer  was  beyond  her  reach.  How- 
ever, the  unsightly,  tailless  condition  of 
the  vigorous  steed  was,  to  the  last  hour  of 
the  noble  creature's  life,  an  awful  warn- 
ing to  the  Carrick  farmers,  not  to  stay 
too  late  in  Ayr  markets. 


The  last  relation  I  shall  give,  though 
equally  true,  is  not  so  well  identified,  a3 
the  two  former,  with  regard  to  the  scene; 
but  as  the  best  authorities  give  it  for  Al- 
loway, I  shall  relate  it. 


On  a  summer's  evening,  about  the  time 
that  nature  puts  on  her  sables  to  mourn 
the  expiry  of  the  cheerful  day,  a  shepherd 
boy  belonging  to  a  farmer  in  the  imme- 
diate neighbourhood  of  Alloway  kirk,  had 
just  folded  his  charge,  and  was  returning 
home.  As  he  passed  the  kirk,  in  the  ad- 
joining field,  he  fell  in  with  a  crew  of  men 
and  women  who  were  busy  pulling  stems 
of  the  plant  Ragwort.  He  observed  that 
as  each  person  pulled  a  Ragwort,  he  or 
she  got  astride  of  it,  and  called  out,  "  up 
horsie!"  on  which  the  Ragwort  flew  off 
like  Pegasus,  through  the  air  with  its  ri- 


244 


LETTERS. 


der.  The  foolish  boy  likewise  pulled  his 
Ragwort,  and  cried  with  the  rest  "  up 
horsie  !"  and,  strange  to  tell,  away  he  flew 
with  the  company.  The  first  stage  at 
which  the  cavalcade  stopped  was  a  mer- 
chant's wine  cellar  in  Bourdeaux,  where, 
wil  hout  saying  by  your  leave,  they  quaffed 
away  at  the  best  the  cellar  could  afford, 
until*  the  morning,  foe  to  the  imps  and 
works  of  darkness,  threatened  to  throw 
light  on  the  matter,  and  frightened  them 
from  their  carousals. 


The  poor  shepherd  lad,  being  equally 
a  stranger  to  the  scene  and  the  liquor, 
heedlessly  got  himself  drunk ;  and  when 
the  rest  took  horse,  he  fell  asleep,  and 
was  found  so  next  day  by  some  of  the 
people  belonging  to  the  merchant.  Some- 
body that  understood  Scotch,  asking  him 
what  he  was,  he  said  he  was  such-a-one's 
herd  in  Alloway,  and  by  some  means  or 
other  getting  home  again,  he  lived  long 
to  tell  the  world  the  wondrous  tale. 

I  am,  &c.  &.c. 


END  OF   THE   LETTERS. 


▲vvBirittxx 


No.  I.— JVbte  A.     See  Life,  p.  2. 

The  importance  of  the  national  estab- 
lishment of  parish-schools  in  Scotland  will 
justify  a  short  account  of  the  legislative 
provisions  respecting  it,  especially  as  the 
subject  has  escaped  the  notice  of  all  the 
historians. 

By  an  act  of  the  king  (James  Vlth) 
and  privy  council  of  the  10th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1616,  it  was  recommended  to  his 
bishops  to  deale  and  travel  with  the  heri- 
tors (land  proprietors,)  and  the  inhabitants 
of  the  respective  parishes  in  their  respec- 
tive dioceses,  towards  the  fixing  upon 
"  some  certain,  solid,  and  sure  course" 
for  settling  and  entertaining  a  school  in 
each  parish.  This  was  ratified  by  a  sta- 
tute of  Charles  I.  (the  act  1633,  chap.  5.) 
which  empowered  the  bishop,  with  the 
consent  of  the  heritors  of  a  parish,  or  of 
a  majority  of  the  inhabitants,  if  the  heri- 
tors refused  to  attend  the  meeting,  to  as- 
sess every  plough  of  land  (that  is,  every 
farm,  in  proportion  to  the  number  of 
ploughs  upon  it)  with  a  certain  sum  for 
establishing  a  school.  This  was  an  inef- 
fectual provision,  as  depending  on  the 
consent  and  pleasure  of  the  heritors  and 
inhabitants.  Therefore  a  new  order  of 
things  was  introduced  by  Stat.  1 646,  chap. 
17,  which  obliges  the  heritors  and  minis- 
ter of  each  parish  to  meet  and  assess  the 
several  heritors  with  the  requisite  sum  for 
building  a  schoolhouse,  and  to  elect  a 
school-master,  and  modify  a  salary  for  him 
in  all  time  to  come.  The  salary  is  order- 
ed not  to  be  under  one  hundred,  nor  above 
two  hundred  merks,  that  is,  in  our  pre- 
sent sterling  money,  not  under  £5  lis. 
lid.  nor  above  £11  2s.  3d.  and  the  as- 
sessment is  to  be  laid  on  the  land  in  the 


same  proportion  as  it  is  rated  for  the 
support  of  the  clergy,  and  as  it  regulates 
the  payment  of  the  land-tax.  But  in  case 
the  heritors  of  any  parish,  or  the  ma- 
jority of  them,  should  fail  to  discharge 
this  duty,  then  the  persons  forming  what 
is  called  the  Committee  of  Supply  of  the 
county  (consisting  of  the  principal  land- 
holders,) or  any  Jive  of  them,  are  autho- 
rized by  the  statute  to  impose  the  assess- 
ment instead  of  them,  on  the  representa- 
tion of  the  presbytery  in  which  the  parish 
is  situated.  To  secure  the  choice  of  a 
proper  teacher,  the  right  of  election  by 
the  heritors,  by  a  statute  passed  in  1693, 
chap.  22,  is  made  subjectto  the  review  and 
control  of  the  presbytery  of  the  district, 
who  have  the  examination  of  the  person 
proposed  committed  to  them,  both  as  to  his 
qualifications  as  a  teacher,  and  as  to  his 
proper  deportment  in  the  office  when  set- 
tled in  it.  The  election  of  the  heritors 
is  therefore  only  a  presentment  of  a  per- 
son for  the  approbation  of  the  presbyte- 
ry ;  who,  if  they  find  him  unfit,  may  de- 
clare his  incapacity,  and  thus  oblige  them 
to  elect  anew.  So  far  is  stated  on  un- 
questionable authority.* 

The  legal  salary  of  the  schoolmaster 
was  not  inconsiderable  at  the  time  it  wa3 
fixed ;  but  by  the  decrease  in  the  value  of 
money,  it  is  now  certainly  inadequate  to 
its  object;  and  it  is  painful  to  observe, 
that  the  landholders  of  Scotland  resisted 
the  humble  application  of  the  schoolmas- 
ters to  the  legislature  for  its  increase,  a 
few  years  ago.  The  number  of  parishes 
in  Scotland  is  877 ;  and  if  we  allow  the 
salary  of  a  schoolmaster  in  each  to  be  on 

*  The  authority  of  A.  Frazcr  Tytlcr,  and  David 
Hume,  Esqrs. 


246 


APPENDIX,  NO.  I. 


an  average,  seven  pounds  sterling,  the 
amount  of  the  legal  provision  will  be 
£6,  139  sterling.  If  we  suppose  the  wa- 
ges paid  by  the  scholars  to  amount  to 
twice  the  sum,  which  is  probably  beyond 
the  truth,  the  total  of  the  expenses 
among  1,526,492  persons  (the  whole  po- 
pulation of  Scotland,)  of  this  most  im- 
portant establishment,  will  be  £18,  417. 
But  on  this,  as  well  as  on  other  subjects  re- 
specting Scotland,  accurate  information 
may  soon  be  expected  from  Sir  John 
Sinclair's  Analysis  of  his  Statistics,  which 
will  complete  the  immortal  monument  he 
has  reared  to  his  patriotism. 

The  benefit  arising  in  Scotland  from 
the  instruction  of  the  poor,  was  soon  felt ; 
and  by  an  act  of  the  British  parliament, 
4  Geo.  I.  chap.  6,  it  is  enacted,  "  that  of 
the  moneys  arising  from  the  sale  of  the 
Scottish  estates  forfeited  in  the  rebellion 
of  1715,  £2,000  sterling  shall  be  convert- 
ed into  a  capital  stock,  the  interest  of 
which  shall  be  laid  out  in  erecting  and 
maintaining  schools  in  the  Highlands. 
The  Society  for  propagating  Christian 
Knowledge,  incorporated  in  1709,  have 
applied  a  large  part  of  their  fund  for  the 
same  purpose.  By  their  report,  1  st  May, 
1795,  the  annual  sum  employed  by  them, 
in  supporting  their  schools  in  the  High- 
lands and  Islands,  was  £3,913  19s.  10d., 
in  which  are  taught  the  English  language, 
reading  and  writing,  and  the  principles  of 
religion.  The  schools  of  the  society  are 
additional  to  the  legal  schools,  which 
from  the  great  extent  of  many  of  the 
Highland  parishes,  were  found  insuffi- 
cient. Besides  these  established  schools, 
the  lower  classes  of  people  in  Scotland, 
where  the  parishes  are  large,  often  com- 
bine together,and  establish  private  schools 
of  their  own,  at  one  of  which  it  was  that 
Burns  received  the  principal  part  of  his 
education.  So  convinced  indeed  are  the 
poor  people  of  Scotland,  by  experience, 
of  the  benefit  of  instruction,  to  their  chil- 
dren, that,  though  they  may  often  find  it 
difficult  to  feed  and  clothe  them,  some 
kind  of  school-instruction  they  almost  al- 
ways procure  them. 

The  influence  of  the  school-establish- 
ment of  Scotland  on  the  peasantry  of  that 
country,  seems  to  have  decided  by  expe- 
rience a  question  of  legislation  of  the  ut- 
most importance — whether  a  system  of 
national  instruction  for  the  poor  be  fa- 
vourable to  morals  and  good  government. 
In  the  year  1G9G,  Fletcher  of  Salton  de- 


clared as  follows  :  "  There  arc  at  this  day 
in  Scotland,  two  hundred  thousand  people 
begging  from  door  to  door.  And  though 
the  number  of  them  be  perhaps  double  to 
what  it  was  formerly,  by  reason  of  this 
present  great  distress  (a  famine  then  pre- 
vailed,) yet  in  all  times  there  have  been 
about  one  hundred  thousand  of  those  va- 
gabonds, who  have  lived  without  any  re- 
gard or  subjection  either  to  the  laws  of 
the  land,  or  even  those  of  God  and  Na- 
ture ;  fathers  incestuously  accompanying 
with  their  own  daughters,  the  son  with 
the  mother,  and  the  brother  with  the  sis- 
ter." He  goes  on  to  say;  that  no  magis- 
trate ever  could  discover  that  they  had 
ever  been  baptized,  or  in  what  way  one 
in  a  hundred  went  out  of  the  world.  He 
accuses  them  as  frequently  guilty  of  rob- 
bery, and  sometimes  of  murder :  "  In 
years  of  plenty,"  says  he,  "  many  thou- 
sands of  men  meet  together  in  the  moun- 
tains, where  they  feast  and  riot  for  many 
days ;  and  at  country  weddings,  markets, 
burials,  and  other  public  occasions,  they 
are  to  be  seen,  both  men  and  women, 
perpetually  drunk,  cursing,  blaspheming, 
and  fighting  together."*  This  high- 
minded  statesman,  of  whom  it  is  said  by 
a  contemporary  "  that  he  would  lose  his 
life  readily  to  save  his  country,  and  would 
not  do  abase  thing  to  serve  it,"  thought  the 
evil  so  great  that  he  proposed  as  a  reme- 
dy, the  revival  of  domestic  slavery,  ac- 
cording to  the  practice  of  his  adored  re- 
publics in  the  classic  ages !  A  better  re- 
medy has  been  found,  which  in  the  silent 
lapse  of  a  century  has  proved  effectual. 
The  statute  of  1696,  the  noble  legacy  of 
the  Scottish  Parliament  to  their  country, 
began  soon  after  this  to  operate ;  and 
happily,  as  the  minds  of  the  poor  received 
instruction,  the  Union  opened  new  chan- 
nels of  industry,  and  new  fields  of  action 
to  their  view. 

At  the  present  day  there  is  perhaps  no 
country  in  Europe,  in  which,  in  propor- 
tion to  its  population,  so  small  a  number 
of  crimes  fall  under  the  chastisement  ol 
the  criminal  law,  as  Scotland.  We  have 
the  best  authority  for  asserting,  that  on 
an  average  of  thirty  years,  preceding  the 
year  1797,  the  executions  in  that  division 
of  the  island  did  not  amount  to  six  annu- 
ally ;  and  one  quarter-sessions  for  the 
town  of  Manchester  only,  has  sent,  ac- 
cording to  Mr.  Hume,  more  felons  to  the 
plantations,  than  all  the  judges  of  Scot- 

*  Political  Works  of  Andrew  Fletcher,  octavo,  Lon- 
don. 


APPENDIX,  NO.  1. 


247 


land  usually  do  in  the  space  of  a  year.* 
It  might  appear  invidious  to  attempt,  a  cal- 
culation of  the  many  thousand  individu- 
als in  Manchester  and  its  vicinity  who 
can  neither  read  nor  write.  A  majority 
of  those  who  can  suffer  the  punishment  of 
death  for  their  crimes  in  every  part  of 
England  are,  it  is  believed,  in  this  mise- 
rable state  of  ignorance. 

There  is  now  a  legal  provision  for  pa- 
rochial schools,  or  rather  for  a  school  in 
each  of  the  different  townships  into  which 
the  country  is  divided,  in  several  of  the 
northern  states  of  North  America.  They 
are,  however,  of  recent  origin  there,  ex- 
cepting in  New  England,  where  they 
were  established  in  the  last  century,  pro- 
bably about  the  same  time  as  in  Scotland, 
and  by  the  same  religious  sect.  In  the 
Protestant  Cantons  of  Switzerland,  the 
peasantry  have  the  advantage  of  similar 
schools,  though  established  and  endowed 
in  a  different  manner.  This  is  also  the 
case  in  certain  districts  in  England,  par- 
ticularly, in  the  northern  parts  of  York- 
shire and  of  Lancashire,  and  in  the  coun- 
ties of  Westmoreland  and  Cumberland. 

A  law,  providing  for  the  instruction  of 
the  poor,  was  passed  by  the  Parliament 
of  Ireland  ;  but  the  fund  was  diverted 
from  its  purpose,  and  the  measure  was 
entirely  frustrated.     Proh  Pudor! 

The  similarity  of  character  between 
the  Swiss  and  the  Scotch,  and  between 
the  Scotch  and  the  people  of  New  Eng- 
land, can  scarcely  be  overlooked.  That 
it  arises  in  a  great  measure  from  the  si- 
milarity of  their  institutions  for  instruc- 
tion, cannot  be  questioned.  It  is  no  doubt 
increased  by  physical  causes.  With  a 
superior  degree  of  instruction,  each  of 
these  nations  possesses  a  country  that 
may  be  said  to  be  sterile,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  countries  comparatively  rich. 
Hence  emigrations  and  the  other  effects 
on  conduct  and  character  which  such  cir- 
cumstances naturally  produce.  This  sub- 
ject is  in  a  high  degree  curious.  The 
points  of  dissimilarity  between  these  na- 
tions might  be  traced  to  their  causes  also, 
and  the  whole  investigation  would  per- 
haps admit  of  an  approach  to  certainty  in 
our  conclusions,  to  which  such  inquiries 
seldom  lead.  How  much  superior  in  mo- 
rals, in  intellect,  and  in  happiness,   the 


•  Humn's  CommcntHries  op  the 
Introduction,  p.  50. 


Laws  of  Scotland, 


peasantry  of  those  parts  of  England  are 
who  have  opportunities  of  instruction,  to 
the  same  class  in  other  situations,  those 
who  inquire  into  the  subject  will  speedily 
discover.  The  peasantry  of  Westmore- 
land, and  of  the  other  districts  mentioned 
above,  if  their  physical  and  moral  quali- 
ties be  taken  together,  are,  in  the  opinion 
of  the  Editor,  superior  to  the  peasantry 
of  any  part  of  the  island. 

Note  B.  See  p.  3. 

It  has  been  supposed  that  Scotland  is 
less  populous  and  less  improved  on  ac- 
count of  this  emigration  ;  but  such  con- 
clusions are  doubtful,  if  not  wholly  falla- 
cious. The  principle  of  population  acts 
in  no  country  to  the  full  extent  of  its  pow- 
er :  marriage  is  every  where  retarded  be- 
yond the  period  pointed  out  by  nature, 
by  the  difficulty  of  supporting  a  family ; 
and  this  obstacle  is  greatest  in  long-set- 
tled communities.  The  emigration  of  a 
part  of  a  people  facilitates  the  marriage 
of  the  rest,  by  producing  a  relative  in- 
crease in  the  means  of  subsistence.  The 
arguments  of  Adam  Smith,  for  a  free  ex- 
port of  corn,  are  perhaps  applicable  with 
less  exception  to  the  free  export  of  peo- 
ple. The  more  certain  the  vent,  the 
greater  the  cultivation  of  the  soil.  This 
subject  has  been  well  investigated  by  Sir 
James  Stewart,  whose  principles  have 
been  expanded  and  farther  illustrated  in 
a  late  truly  philosophical  Essay  on  Popu- 
lation. In  fact,  Scotland  has  increased 
in  the  number  of  its  inhabitants  in  the 
last  forty  years,  as  the  Statistics  of  Sir 
John  Sinclair  clearly  prove,  but  not  in  the 
ratio  that  some  had  supposed.  The  ex- 
tent of  the  emigration  of  the  Scots  may 
be  calculated  with  some  degree  of  confi- 
dence from  the  proportionate  number  of 
the  two  sexes  in  Scotland ;  a  point  that 
may  be  established  pretty  exactly  by  an 
examination  of  the  invaluable  Statistics 
already  mentioned.  If  we  suppose  that 
there  is  an  equal  number  of  male  and  fe- 
male natives  of  Scotland,  alive  somewhere 
or  other,  the  excess  by  which  the  females 
exceed  the  males  in  their  own  country, 
may  be  considered  to  be  equal  to  the 
number  of  Scotchmen  living  out  of  Scot- 
land. But  though  the  males  born  in 
Scotland  be  admitted  to  be  as  13  to  12, 
and  though  some  of  the  females  emigrate 
as  well  as  the  males,  this  mode  of  calcu- 
lating would  probably  make  the  number 
of  expatriated  Scotchmen,  at  any  one  time 


243 

alive,  greater  than  the  truth.  The  un- 
healthy climates  into  which  they  emi- 
grate, the  hazardous  services  in  which  so 
many  of  them  engage,  render  the  mean 
life  of  those  who  leave  Scotland  (to  speak 
in  the  language  of  calculators)  not  per- 
haps of  half  the  value  of  the  mean  life  of 
those  who  remain. 

Note  C.     See  p.  6. 

In  the  punishment  of  this  offence  the 
Church  employed  formerly  the  arm  of  the 
civil  power.  During  the  reign  of  James 
the  Vlth  (James  the  First  of  England,)  cri- 
minal connexion  between  unmarried  per- 
sons was  made  the  subject  of  a  particular 
statute  (See  Hume's  Commentaries  on  the 
Laws  of  Scotland,  Vol.  ii.  p.  332.)  which, 
from  its  rigour,  was  never  much  enforced, 
and  which  has  long  fallen  into  disuse. 
When  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century, 
the  Puritans  succeeded  in  the  overthrow 
of  the  monarchy  in  both  divisions  of  the 
island,  fornication  was  a  crime  against 
which  they  directed  their  utmost  zeal. 
It  was  made  punishable  with  death  in  the 
second  instance,  (See  Blackstone,  b.  iv. 
chap.  4.  No.  II.)  Happily  this  sanguina- 
ry statute  was  swept  away  along  with  the 
other  acts  of  the  Commonwealth,  on  the 
restoration  of  Charles  II.  to  whose  tem- 
per and  manners  it  must  have  been  pecu- 
liarly abhorrent.  And  after  the  Revolu- 
tion, when  several  salutary  acts  passed 
during  the  suspension  of  the  monarchy, 
were  re-enacted  by  the  Scottish  Parlia- 
ment, particularly  that  for  the  establish- 
ment of  parish-schools,  the  statute  pun- 
ishing fornication  with  death,  was  suffer- 
ed to  sleep  in  the  grave  of  the  stern  fana- 
tics who  had  given  it  birth. 

Note  D.     See  p.  6. 

The  legitimation  of  children,  by  subse- 
quent marriage  became  the  Roman  law 
under  the  Christian  emperors.  It  was 
the  cannon  law  of  modern  Europe,  and 
has  been  established  #in  Scotland  from  a 
very  remote  period.  Thus  a  child  born  a 
bastard,  if  his  parents  afterwards  marry, 
enjoys  all  the  privileges  of  seniority  over 
his  brothers  afterwards  born  in  wedlock. 
In  the  Parliament  of  Merton,  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  III.  the  English  clergy  made  a 
vigorous  attempt  to  introduce  this  article 
into  the  law  of  England,  and  it  was  on 
this  occasion  that  the  Barons  made  the 
noted  answer,  since  so  often  appealed  to ; 
Quod  nolunt  leges  Anglim  mutare  ;  quae 


APPENDIX,  NO.  2. 


hue  usque  usitaloz  sunt  approbatce.  With 
regard  to  what  constitutes  a  marriage, 
the  law  of  Scotland,  as  explained,  p.  6, 
differs  from  the  Roman  law,  which  re- 
quired the  ceremony  to  be  performed  in 
facie  ecclesice. 


No.  II. 


Note  A.     See  p.  12. 

It  may  interest  some  persons  to  peruse 
the  first  poetical  production  of  our  Bard, 
and  it  is  therefore  extracted  from  a  kind 
of  common  place  book,  which  he  seems 
to  have  begun  in  his  twentieth  year ;  and 
which  he  entitled,  "  Observations,  Hints, 
Songs,  Scraps  of  Poetry,  SfC.  by  Robert 
Burness,  a  man  who  had  little  art  in 
making  money,  and  still  less  in  keeping 
it  ;  but  was,  however,  a  man  of  some 
sense,  a  great  deal  of  honesty,  and  un- 
bounded good  will  to  every  creature,  ra- 
tional or  irrational.  As  he  was  but  little 
indebted  to  a  scholastic  education,  and 
bred  at  a  plough-tail,  his  performances 
must  be  strongly  tinctured  with  his  unpol- 
ished rustic  way  of  life  ;  but  as,  I  believe 
they  are  really  his  own,  it  may  be  some 
entertainment  to  a  curious  observer  ot 
human  nature,  to  see  how  a  ploughman 
thinks  and  feels,  under  the  pressure  ot 
love,  ambition,  anxiety,  grief,  with  the 
like  cares  and  passions,  which  however 
diversified  by  the  modes  and  manners  of 
life,  operate  pretty  much  alike,  I  believe, 
in  all  the  species." 

"  Pleasing  when  youth  is  long  expired  to  trace, 
The  forms  our  pencil  or  our  pen  design'd, 

Such  was  our  youthful  air,  and  shape,  and  face, 
Such  the  softimage  of  the  youthful  mind." 

Shenstone. 

This  MS.  book,  to  which  our  poet  pre- 
fixed this  account  of  himself,  and  of  his 
intention  in  preparing  it,  contains  several 
of  his  earlier  poems,  some  as  they  were 
printed,  and  others  in  their  embryo  state. 
The  song  alluded  to  is  that  beginning, 

O  once  I  lov'd  abonnie  lass, 
Ay,  and  I  love  her  still, 

See  Poems,  p.  79. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  this  song 
gives  no  indication  of  the  future  genius 
of  Burns  ;  but  he  himself  seems  to  have 
been  fond  of  it,  probably  from  the  recol- 
lections it  excited. 


APPENDIX,  NO.  2. 


JVbteB.    Seep.  15. 

At  the  time  that  our  poet  took  the  re- 
solution of  becoming  wise,  he  procured  a 
little  book  of  blank  paper,  with  the  pur- 
pose (expressed  on  the  first  page)  of  ma- 
king farming  memorandums  upon  it. 
These  farming  memorandums  arc  curious 
enough  •„  many  of  them  have  been  writ- 
ten with  a  pencil,  and  are  now  oblite- 
rated, or  at  least  illegible.  A  considera- 
ble number  are  however  legible,  and  a 
specimen  may  gratify  the  reader.  It 
must  be  premised,  that  the  poet  kept 
the  book  by  him  several  years — that  he 
wrote  upon  it,  here  and  there,  with  the 
utmost  irregularity,  and  that  on  the  same 
page  are  notations  very  distant  from  each 
other  as  to  time  and  place. 


EXTEMPORE.    April,  1782. 

O  why  the  deuce  should  I  repine, 
And  be  an  ill  foreboder  ; 

See  Poems,  p.  1G3. 


FRAGMENT.     Tune—'  Donald  Blue.' 

O  leave  novels,  ye  Mauchline  belles, 
Ye're  safer  at  your  spinning  wheel ; 

See  Poems,  p.  151. 


For  he's  far  aboon  Dunkel  the  night 
Maun  white  the  stick  and  a'  that. 

Mem.  To  get  for  Mr.  Johnson  these 
two  Songs  : — '  Molly,  Molly,  my  dear 
honey. ,' — '  The  cock  and  the  hen,  the  deer 
in  her  den,'  Sfc. 


Ah!  Cloris!  Sir  Peter  Halket,  of  Pit- 
ferran,  the  author. — Nota,  he  married 
her — the  heiress  of  Pitferran. 

Colonel  George  Crawford,  the  author 
of  Dovm  the  burn  Davy. 

Pinky-house,  by  J.  Mitchell. 

My  apron  Deary!  and  Amynta,  by 
Sir  G.  Elliot. 

Willie  was  a  wanton  Wag,  was  made 
on  Walkinshaw,  of  Walkinshaw,  near 
Paisley. 

/  he  na  a  laddie  but  ane,  Mr.  Clunzee. 

The  bonnie  viee  thing — beautiful — Bun- 
dle's Dream — very  beautiful. 

He  til/'t  and  she  till't — assez  bien. 

Afinstrong's  Farewell — fine. 

The  author  of  the  Highland  Queen  was 
a  Mr.  M'lver,  Purser  of  the  Solboy. 


249 

Fife  an'  «'  the  land  about  it,  R.  Fergus- 
son. 

The  author  of  The  bush  aboon  Tra- 
quair,  was  a  Dr.  Stewart. 

Polwarl  on  the  Green,  composed  by 
Captain  John  Drummond  M'Grigor  of 
Bochaldie. 

Mem.  To  inquire  if  Mrs.  Cochburn 
was  the  author  of  /  hae  seen  the  smiling, 
&c. 


The  above  may  serve  as  a  specimen. 
All  the  notes  on  farming  are  obliterated. 

Note.  C.    Seep.  30,  31. 

Rules  and  regulations  to  be  observed  in 
the  Bachelors]  Club. 

1st.  The  club  shall  meet  at  Tarbolton 
every  fourth  Monday  night,  when  a  ques- 
tion on  any  subject  shall  be  proposed, 
disputed  points  of  religion,  only  excepted, 
in  the  manner  hereafter  directed  ;  which 
question  is  to  be  debated  in  the  club, 
each  member  taking  whatever  side  he 
thinks  proper. 

2d.  When  the  club  iswnet,  the  presi- 
dent, or,  he  failing,  some  one  of  the  mem- 
bers, till  he  come,  shall  take  his  seat; 
then  the  other  members  shall  seat  tnem- 
selves  :  those  who  are  for  one  side  of  the 
question,  on  the  president's  right  hand ; 
and  those  who  are  for  the  other  side  on 
his  left ;  which  of  them  shall  have  the 
right  hand  is  to  be  determined  by  the 
president.  The  president  and  four  of  the 
members  being  present,  shall  have  pow- 
er to  transact  any  ordinary  part  of  the  so- 
ciety's business. 

3d.  The  club  met  and  seated,  the  pre- 
sident shall  read  the  question  out  of  the 
club's  book  of  records,  (which  book  is 
always  to  be  kept  by  the  president,) 
then  the  two  members  nearest  the  presi- 
dent shall  cast  lots  who  of  them  shall 
speak  first,  and  according  as  the  lot  shall 
determine,  the  member  nearest  the  pre- 
sident on  that  side  shall  deliver  his  opin- 
ion, and  the  member  nearest  on  the  other 
side  shall  reply  to  him  ;  then  the  second 
member  of  the  side  that  spoke  first ;  then 
the  second  member  of  the  side  that  spoke 
second  ;  and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  com- 
pany ;  but  if  there  be  fewer  members  on 
the  one  side  than  on  the  other,  when  all 
the  members  of  the  least  side  have  spo- 


250 

ken  according  to  their  places,  any  of 
them,  as  they  please  among  themselves, 
may  reply  to  the  remaining  members  of 
the  opposite  side :  when  both  sides  have 
spoken,  the  president  shall  give  his  opin- 
ion, after  which  they  may  go  over  it  a  se- 
cond or  more  times,  and  so  continue  the 
question. 

4th.  The  club  shall  then  proceed  to 
the  choice  of  a  question  for  the  subject  of 
next  night's  meeting.  The  president 
shall  first  propose  one,  and  any  other 
member  who  chooses  may  propose  more 
questions ;  and  whatever  one  of  them  is 
most  agreeable  to  the  majority  of  mem- 
bers, shall  be  the  subject  of  debate  next 
club-night. 

5th.  The  club  shall,  lastly,  elect  a  new 
president  for  the  next  meeting :  the  pre- 
sident shall  first  name  one,  then  any  of 
the  club  may  name  another,  and  whoever 
of  them  has  the  majority  of  votes  shall 
be  duly  elected ;  allowing  the  president 
the  first  vote,  and  the  casting  vote  upon 
a  par,  but  none  other.  Then  after  a  ge- 
neral toast  to  mistresses  of  the  club,  they 
shall  dismiss. 

6th.  There  shall  be  no  private  conver- 
sation carried  on  during  the  time  of  de- 
bate, nor  shall  any  member  interrupt 
another  while  he  is  speaking,  under  the 
penalty  of  a  reprimand  from  the  presi- 
dent for  the  first  fault,  doubling  his  share 
of  the  reckoning  for  the  second,  trebling 
it.  for  the  third,  and  so  on  in  proportion  for 
every  other  fault,  provided  alway,  how- 
ever, that  any  member  may  speak  at  any 
time  after  leave  asked,  and  given  by  the 
president.  All  swearing  and  profane  lan- 
guage, and  particularly  all  obscene  and 
indecent  conversation,  is  strictly  prohibit- 
ed, under  the  same  penalty  as  aforesaid 
in  the  first  clause  of  this  article. 


APPENDIX,  NO.  2. 


7th.  No  member,  on  any  pretence 
whatever,  shall  mention  any  of  the  club's 
affairs  to  any  other  person  but  a  brother 
member,  under  the  pain  of  being  ex- 
cluded; and  particularly  if  any  member 
shall  reveal  any  of  the  speeches  or  affairs 
of  the  club,  with  a  view  to  ridicule  or 
laugh  at  any  of  the  rest  of  the  members, 
he  shall  be  for  ever  excommunicated  from 
ihe  society;  and  the  rest  of  the  members 
are  desired,  as  much  as  possible,  to  avoid, 
and  have  no  communication  with  him  as 
a  friend  o    comrade 


8th.  Every  member  shall  attend  at  the 
meetings,  without  he  can  give  a  proper 
excuse  for  not  attending ;  and  it  is  de- 
sired that  every  one  who  cannot  attend, 
will  send  his  excuse  with  some  other 
member :  and  he  who  shall  be  absent 
three  meetings  without  sending  such  ex- 
cuse, shall  be  summoned  to  the  club-night, 
when  if  he  fail  to  appear,  or  send  an  ex- 
cuse he  shall  be  excluded. 

9th.  The  club  shall  not  consist  of  more 
than  sixteen  members,  all  bachelors,  be- 
longing to  the  parish  of  Tarbolton :  ex- 
cept a  brother  member  marry,  and  in  that 
case  he  may  be  continued,  if  the  majority 
of  the  club  think  proper.  No  person 
shall  be  admitted  a  member  of  this  soci- 
ety, without  the  unanimous  consent  of 
the  club  ;  and  any  member  may  withdraw 
from  the  club  altogether,  by  giving  a  no- 
tice to  the  president  in  writing  of  his  de- 
parture. 

10th.  Every  man  proper  for  a  member 
of  this  society,  must  have  a  frank,  honest, 
open  heart ;  above  any  thing  dirty  or 
mean  ;  and  must  be  a  profest  lover  of  one 
or  more  of  the  female  sex.  No  haughty, 
self-conceited  person,  who  looks  upon 
himself  as  superior  to  the  rest  of  the  club, 
and  especially  no  mean-spirited,  worldly 
mortal,  whose  only  will  is  to  heap  up  mo- 
ney, shall  upon  any  pretence  whatever 
be  admitted.  In  short,  the  proper  per- 
son for  this  society  is,  a  cheerful,  honest 
hearted  lad,  who,  if  lie  has  a  friend  that 
is  true,  and  a  mistress  that  is  kind,  and 
as  much  wealth  as  genteelly  to  make  both 
ends  meet — is  just  as  happy  as  this  world 
can  make  him. 

Note  D.    Seep.  84. 


A  great  number  of  manuscript  poems 
were  found  among  the  papers  of  Burns, 
addressed  to  him  by  admirers  of  his  ge- 
nius, from  different  parts  of  Britain,  as  well 
as  from  Ireland  and  America.  Among 
these  was  a  poetical  epistle  from  Mr. 
Telford,  of  Shrewsbury,  of  superior  me- 
rit. It  is  written  in  the  dialect  of  Scot- 
land (of  which  country  Mr.  Telford  is  a 
native,)  and  in  the  versification  general- 
ly employed  by  our  poet  himself.  Its  ob- 
ject is  to  recommend  to  him  other  sub- 
jects of  a  serious  nature,  similar  to  that 
of  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  ;  and  the 
reader  will  find  that  the  advice  is  happily 
enforced  by  example.  It  would  have 
given  the  editor  pleasure  to  have  insert- 


APPENDIX,  NO.  2. 


251 


cd  the  whole  of  this  poem,  which  he 
hopes  will  one  day  see  the  light :  he  is 
happy  to  have  obtained,  in  the  mean  time, 
his  friend  Mr.  Telford's  permission  to  in- 
sert the  following  extracts : 


Pursue,  O  Burns  !  thy  happy  style, 
"  Those  manner-painting  strains,"  that  while 
They  bear  mo  northward  mony  a  mile, 

Recall  the  days, 
When  tender  joys,  with  pleasing  smile, 

Bless'd  my  young  ways. 

I  see  my  fond  companions  rise, 
I  join  the  happy  village  joys, 
I  see  our  green  hills  touch  the  skies, 

And  through  the  woods, 
I  hear  the  river's  rushing  noise, 

Its  roaring  floods.* 

No  distant  Swiss  with  warmer  glow, 
E'er  heard  his  nafive  music  flow, 
Nor  could  his  wishes  stronger  grow, 

Than  still  have  mine, 
When  up  this  ancient  mountt  I  go, 

With  songs  of  tliinc. 

O  happy  Bard  !  thy  gen'rous  flame 
Was  given  to  raise  thy  country's  fame ; 
For  this  thy  charming  numbers  came — 

Thy  matchless  lays ; 
Then  sing,  and  save  her  virtuous  name, 

To  latest  days. 

But  mony  a  theme  awaits  thy  muse, 
Fine  as  thy  Cotter's  sacred  views, 
Then  in  such  verse  thy  soul  infuse, 

With  holy  air; 
And  sing  the  course  the  pious  choose, 

With  all  thy  care. 

How  with  religious  awe  impressed. 
They  open  lay  the  guileless  breast , 
And  youth  and  age  with  fears  distress'd, 

All  due  prepare, 
The  symbols  of  eternal  rest 

Devout  to  share.:): 

How  down  ilk  lang  withdrawing  hill, 
Successive  crowds  the  valleys  fill ; 
While  pure  religious  converse  still 

Beguiles  the  way, 
And  gives  a  cast  to  youthful  will, 

To  suit  the  day. 

*  The  banks  of  Esk,  in  Dumfries-shire,  are  here  al- 
luded to. 

t  A  beautiful  little  mount,  which  stands  immediate- 
ly before,  or  rathor  forms  a  part  of  Shrewsbury  castle, 
a  seat  of  Sir  William  Pulteney,  baronet. 

J  The  Sacrament,  generally  administered  in  the  coun- 
try parishes  of  Scotland  in  the  open  air.  E. 

E  e? 


How  placed  along  the  sacred  board, 
Their  hoary  pastor's  looks  adored, — 
His  voice  with  peace  and  blessing  stored, 

Sent  from  above ; 
And  faith,  and  hope,  and  joy  arl'ord, 

And  boundless  love. 

O'er  this,  with  warm  seraphic  glow, 
Celestial  beings,  pleased  bow  ; 
And,  whisper'd,  hear  the  holy  vow, 

'Mid  grateful  tears ; 
And  mark  amid  such  scenes  below, 

Their  future  peers. 


O  mark  the  awful  solemn  scene  !* 
When  hoary  winter  clothes  the  plain, 
Along  the  snowy  lulls  is  seen 

Approaching  slow, 
In  mourning  weeds,  the  village  train, 
In  silent  wo. 

Some  much  respected  brother's  bier 
(By  turns  the  pious  task  they  share) 
With  heavy  hearts  they  forward  bear 

Along  the  path, 
Where  nei'bours  saw  in  dusky  air,t 

The  light  of  death. 

And  when  they  pass  the  rocky  how, 
Where  binwood  bushes  o'er  them  flow, 
And  move  around  the  rising  knowe, 

Where  far  away 
The  lurk-yard  trees  are  seen  to  grow, 

By  th'  water  brae. 

Assembled  round  the  narrow  grave, 
While  o'er  them  wintery  tempests  rave, 
In  the  cold  wind  their  gray  locks  wave, 

As  low  they  lay 
Their  brother's  body  'mongst  the  lave 

Of  parent  clay. 

Expressive  looks  from  each  declare 
The  griefs  within,  their  bosoms  bear; 
One  holy  bow  devout  they  share, 

Then  home  return, 
And  think  o'er  all  the  virtues  fair 

Of  lum  they  mourn. 


Say  how  by  early  lessons  taught, 
(Truth's  pleasing  air  is  willing  caught) 
Congenial  to  th'  untainted  thought, 

The  shepherd  boy, 
Who  tends  his  flocks  on  lonely  height, 

Feels  holy  joy. 


•  A  Scoth  funeral. 


E. 


t  This  alludes  to  a  superstition  prevalent  in  Eskdalo, 
and  Annandale,  that  a  light  precedes  in  the  night  eve- 
ry funeral,  marking  the  precise  path  it  is  to  pass.      E 


£52 


APPENDIX,  NO.  3. 


Is  auffht  on  earth  so  lovely  known, 
On  sabbath  morn  and  far  alone, 
His  guileless  soul  all  naked  shown 

Before  his  God — 
Such  pray'ts  must  welcome  reach  the  throne, 

And  bless'd  abode. 

tell !  with  what  a  heartfelt  joy, 
The  parent  eyes  the  virtuous  boy  ; 
And  all  his  constant,  kind  employ, 

Is  how  to  give 
The  best  of  lear  he  can  enjoy, 

As  means  to  live. 

The  parish-school,  its  curious  site, 
The  master  who  can  clear  indite, 
And  lead  him  on  to  count  and  write, 

Demand  thy  care ; 
Nor  pass  the  ploughman's  school  at  night 

Without  a  share. 

Nor  yet  the  tenty  curious  lad, 
Who  o'er  the  ingle  hings  his  head, 
And  begs  of  nei'bours  books  to  read ; 

For  hence  arise 
Thy  country's  sons,  who  far  are  spread, 

Baith  bauld  and  wise.  ' 


The  bonnie  lasses,  as  they  spin, 
Perhaps  with  Allan's  sangs  begin,  _ 
How  Tay  and  Tweed  smooth  flowing  rin 

Through  flowery  hows ; 
Where  Shepherd  lads  their  sweethearts  win 

With  earnest  vows. 

• 

Or  may  be,  Burns,  thy  thrilling  page 
May  a'  their  virtuous  thoughts  engage, 
While  playful  youth  and  placid  age 

In  concert  join, 
To  bless  the  bard,  who,  gay  or  sage, 

Improves  the  mind. 


Long  may  their  harmless,  simple  ways, 
Nature's  own  pure  emotions  raise  ; 
May  still  the  dear  romantic  blaze 

Of  purest  love, 
Their  bosoms  warm  to  latest  days, 

And  ay  improve. 

May  still  each  fond  attachment  glow, 
O'er  woods,  o'er  streams,  o'er  hills  of  snow, 
May  rugged  rocks  still  dearer  grow ; 

And  may  their  souls 
Even  love  the  warlock  glens  which  through 
The  tempest  howls. 

To  eternize  such  themes  as  these, 
And  all  their  happy  manners  seize, 
Will  every  virtuous  bosom  please ; 

And  high  in  fame 
To  future  times  will  justly  raise 

Thy  patriot  name. 


While  all  the  venal  tribes  decay. 
That  bask  in  flattery's  flaunting  ray— 
The  noisome  vermin  of  a  day, 

Thy  works  shall  gain 
O'er  every  mind  a  boundless  sway, 
A  lasting  reign. 

When  winter  binds  the  harden'd  plains, 
Around  each  hearth,  the  hoary  swains 
Still  teach  the  rising  youth  thy  strains ; 

And  anxious  say, 
Our  blessing  with  our  sons  remains, 

And  Burns's  Lay  ! 


No.  III. 


(First  inserted  in  the  Second  Edition.) 

The  editor  has  particular  pleasure  in 
presenting  to  the  public  the  following  let- 
ter, to  the  due  understanding  of  which  a 
few  previous  observations  are  necessary. 

The  Biographer  of  Burns  was  natural- 
ly desirous  of  hearing  the  opinion  of  the 
friend  and  brother  of  the  poet,  on  the 
manner  in  which  he  had  executed  hi3 
task,  before  a  second  edition  should  be 
committed  to  the  press.  He  had  the  sa- 
tisfaction of  receiving  this  opinion,  in  a 
letter  dated  the  24th  of  August,  approving 
of  the  Life  in  very  obliging  terms,  and 
offering  one  or  two  trivial  corrections  as 
to  names  and  dates  chiefly,  which  are 
made  in  this  edition.  One  or  two  obser- 
vations were  offered  of  a  different  kind. 
In  the  319th  page  of  the  first  volume, 
first  edition,  a  quotation  is  made  from  the 
pastoral  song,  Ettrick  Banks,  and  an  ex- 
planation given  of  the  phrase  "  mony 
feck,"  which  occurs  in  this  quotation. 
Supposing  the  sense  to  be  complete  after 
"mony,"  the  editor  had  considered  "  feck" 
a  rustic  oath  which  confirmed  the  asser- 
tion. The  words  were  therefore  sepa- 
rated by  a  comma.  Mr.  Burns  consider- 
ed this  an  error.  "  Feck,"  he  presumes, 
is  the  Scottish  word  for  quantity,  and 
"  monv  feck,"  to  mean  simply,  very  many. 
The  editor  in  yielding  to  this  authority, 
expressed  some  hesitation,  and  hinted 
that  the  phrase  "  mony  feck"  was,  in 
Burns's  sense,  a  pleonasm  or  barbarism 
which    deformed   this    beautiful    song* 

*  The  correction  made  by  Gilbert  Burns  has  also 
been  suggested  by  a  writer  in  the  Monthly  Magazine, 
under  the  signature  of  Albion:  who,  for  taking  this 
trouble,  and  for  mentioning  the  author  of  the  poem  of 
Donnochthcad  deserves  the  Editor's  thanks. 


APPENDIX,  NO.  3. 


His  reply  to  this  observation  makes  the 
first  clause  of  the  following  letter. 

In  the  same  communication  he  informed 
me,  that  the  Mirror  and  the  Lounger  were 
proposed  by  him  to  the  Conversation  Club 
of  Mauchline,  and  that  he  had  thoughts 
of  giving  me  his  sentiments  on  the  re- 
marks I  had  made  respecting  the  fitness 
of  such  works  for  such  societies.  The 
observations  of  such  a  man  on  such  a  sub- 
ject, the  Editor  conceived,  would  be  re- 
ceived with  particular  interest  by  the 
public  ;  and,  having  pressed  earnestly  for 
them,  they  will  be  found  in  the  following 
letter.  Of  the  value  of  this  communica- 
tion, delicacy  towards  his  very  respecta- 
ble correspondent  prevents  him  from  ex- 
pressing his  opinion.  The  original  let- 
ter is  in  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Caddell  and 
Davies. 

Dinning,  Dumfries-shire,  2-ith  Oct.  1 800. 

DEAR  SIR, 

Yours  of  the  17th  inst.  came  to  my 
hand  yesterday,  and  I  sit  down  this  after- 
noon to  write  you  in  return :  but  when  I 
shall  be  able  to  finish  all  I  wish  to  say  to 
you,  I  cannot  tell.  I  am  sorry  your  con- 
viction is  not  complete  respecting  feck. 
There  is  no  doubt,  that  if  you  take  two 
English  words  which  appear  synonymous 
to  mony  feck,  and  judge  by  the  rules  of 
English  construction,  it  will  appear  a  bar- 
barism. I  believe  if  you  take  this  mode 
of  translating  from  any  language,  the  ef- 
fect will  frequently  be  the  same.  But  if 
you  take  the  expression  mony  feck  to 
have,  as  1  have  stated  it,  the  same  mean- 
in  with  the  English  expression  very  many 
(and  such  license  every  translator  must 
be  allowed,  especially  when  he  translates 
from  a  simple  dialect  which  has  never 
been  subjected  to  rule,  and  where  the 
precise  meaning  of  words  is  of  conse- 
quence, not  minutely  attended  to,)  it  will 
be  well  enough.  One  thing  I  am  certain 
of,  that  ours  is  the  sense  universally  un- 
derstood in  the  country  ;  and  I  believe  no 
Scotsman,  who  has  lived  contented  at 
home,  pleased  with  the  simple  manners, 
the  simple  melodies,  and  the  simple  dia- 
lect of  his  native  country,  unvitiated  by 
foreign  intercourse,  "  whose  soul  proud 
science  never  taught  to  stray,"  ever  dis- 
covered barbarism  in  the  song  of  Etlrick 
Banks. 

The  story  you  have  heard  of  the  gable 
of  my  father's  house  falling  down,  is  sim- 


253 

ply  as  follows  ;* — When  my  father  built 
his  "  clay  biggin,"  he  put  in  two  stone- 
jambs,  as  they  are  called,  and  a  lintel, 
carrying  up  a  chimney  in  his  clay  gable. 
The  consequence  was,  that  as  the  gable 
subsided,  the  jambs,  remaining  firm, 
threw  it  off  its  centre;  and,  one  very 
stormy  morning,  when  my  brother  was 
nine  or  ten  years  old,  a  little  before  day- 
light a  part  of  the  gable  fell  out,  and  the 
rest  appeared  so  shattered,  that  my  mo- 
ther with  the  young  poet,  had  to  be  car- 
ried through  the  storm  to  a  neighbour's 
house,  where  they  remained  a  week  till 
their  own  dwelling  was  adjusted.  That 
you  may  not  think  too  meanly  of  this 
house,  or  my  father's  taste  in  building, 
by  supposing  the  poet's  description  in  The 
Vision  (which  is  entirely  a  fancy  picture) 
applicable  to  it,  allow  me  to  take  notice 
to  you,  that  the  house  consisted  of  a  kit- 
chen in  one  end,  and  a  room  in  the  other, 
with  a  fire  place  and  chimney ;  that  my 
father  had  constructed  a  concealed  bed  in 
the  kitchen,  with  a  small  closet  at  the 
end,  of  the  same  materials  with  the  house; 
and,  when  altogether  cast  over,  outside 
and  in,  with  lime,  it  had  a  neat  comforta- 
ble appearance,  such  as  no  family  of  the 
same  rank,  in  the  present  improved  style 
of  living,  would  think  themselves  ill-lodg- 
ed in.  I  wish  likewise  to  take  notice,  in 
passing,  that  although  the  "  Cotter,"  in 
the  Saturday  Night,  is  an  exact  copy  of 
my  father  in  his  manners,  his  family-de- 
votion, and  exhortations,  yet  the  other 
parts  of  the  description  do  not  apply  to 
our  family.  None  of  us  were  ever  "  at 
service  out  amang  the  neebors  roun."  In- 
stead of  our  depositing  our  "  sairwon  pen- 
ny fee"  with  our  parents,  my  father  la- 
boured hard,  and  lived  with  the  most  ri- 
gid economy,  that  he  might  be  able  to 
keep  his  children  at  home,  thereby  hav- 
ing" an  opportunity  of  watching  the  pro- 
gress of  our  young  minds  and  forming  in 
them  earlier  habits  of  piety  and  virtue; 
and  from  this  motive  alone  did  he  engage 
in  farming,  the  source  of  all  his  difficul- 
ties and  distresses. 

When  I  threatened  you  in  my  last  with 
a  long  letter  on  the  subject  of  the  books 
I  recommended  to  the  Mauchline  club, 
and  the  effects  of  refinement  of  taste  on 
the  labouring^  classes  of  men,  I  meant 
merely,  that  I  wished  to  write  you  on 

*  The  Editor  had  heard  a  report  that  the  poet  was 
bom  in  the  midst  of  a  storm  which  blew  down  a  part 
of  the  house.  II 


254 

that  subject  with  the  view  that,  in  some 
future  communication  to  the  public,  you 
might  take  up  the  subject  more  at  large ; 
that,  by  moans  of  your  happy  manner  of 
writing,  the  attention  of  people  of  power 
and  influence  might  be  fixed  on  it.  I  had 
little  expectation,  however,  that  I  should 
evercome  my  indolence,  and  the  difficulty 
of  arranging  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to 
put  my  threat  in  execution;  till  some 
time  ago,  before  I  had  finished  my  har- 
vest, having  a  call  from  Mr.  Ewart,*  with 
a  message  from  you,  pressing  me  to  the 
performance  of  this  task,  I  thought  my- 
self no  longer  at  liberty  to  decline  it,  and 
resolved  to  set  about  it  with  my  first  lei- 
sure. I  will  now  therefore  endeavour  to 
lay  before  you  what  has  occurred  to  my 
mind,  on  a  subject  where  people  capable 
of  observation  and  of  placing  their  re- 
marks in  a  proper  point  of  view,  have  sel- 
dom an  opportunity  of  making  their  re- 
marks on  real  life.  In  doing  this,  I  may 
perhaps  be  led  sometimes  to  write  more 
in  the  manner  of  a  person  communicating 
information  to  you  which  you  did  not 
know  before,  and  at  other  times  more  in 
the  style  of  egotism,  than  I  would  choose 
to  do  to  any  person,  in  whose  candour, 
and  even  personal  good  will,  I  had  less 
confidence. 

There  are  two  several  lines  of  study 
that  open  to  every  man  as  he  enters  life : 
the  one,  the  general  science  of  life,  of  du- 
ty, and  of  happiness;  the  other,  the  par- 
ticular arts  of  his  employment  or  situa- 
tion in  society,  and  the  several  branches 
of  knowledge  therewith  connected.  This 
last  is  certainly  indispensable,  as  nothing 
can  be  more  disgraceful  than  ignorance 
in  the  way  of  one's  own  profession ;  and 
whatever  a  man's  speculative  knowledge 
may  be,  if  he  is  ill-informed  there,  he  can 
neither  be  a  useful  nor  a  respectable  mem- 
ber of  society.  It  is  nevertheless  true, 
that  "  the  proper  study  of  mankind  is 
man:"  to  consider  what  duties  are  in- 
cumbent on  him  as  a  rational  creature, 
and  a  member  of  society ;  how  he  may 
increase  or  secure  his  happiness :  and 
how  he  may  prevent  or  soften  the  many 
miseries  incident  to  human  life.  I  think 
the  pursuit  of  happiness  is  too  frequently 
confined  to  the  endeavour  after  the  acqui- 
sition of  wealth.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  con- 
sidered as  an  idle  declaimer  against  riches, 
which,  after  all  that  can  be  said  against 

•  The  Editor'i  friend  Mr.  Peter  Ewart  of  Manches 
tit.  E. 


APPENDIX,  NO.  3. 


them,  will  still  be  considered  by  men  of 
common  sense  as  objects  of  importance; 
and  poverty  will  be  felt  as  a  sore  evil,  af- 
ter all  the  fine  things  that  can  be  said  of 
its  advantages ;  on  the  contrary  I  am  of 
opinion,  that  a  great  proportion  of  the 
miseries  of  life  arise  from  the  want  of  eco- 
nomy, and  a  prudent  attention  to  money, 
or  the  ill-directed  or  intemperate  pursuit 
of  it.  But  however  valuable  riches  may 
be  as  the  means  of  comfort,  independence, 
and  the  pleasure  of  doing  good  to  others, 
yet  I  am  of  opinion,  that  they  may  be,  and 
frequently  are,  purchased  at  too  great  a 
cost,  and  that  sacrifices  are  made  in  the 
pursuit,  which  the  acquisition  cannot 
compensate.  I  remember  hearing  my 
worthy  teacher,  Mr.  Murdoch,  relate  an 
anecdote  to  my  father,  which  I  think 
sets  this  matter  in  a  strong  light,  and  per- 
haps was  the  origin,  or  at  least  tended  to 
promote  this  way  of  thinking  in  me. 
When  Mr.  Murdoch  left  Alloway,  he 
went  to  teach  and  reside  in  the  family  of 
an  opulent  farmer  who  had  a  number  of 
sons.  A  neighbour  coming  on  a  visit, 
in  the  course  of  conversation,  asked  the 
father  how  he  meant  to  dispose  of  his 
sons.  The  father  replied  that  he  had  not 
determined.  The  visitor  said,  that  were 
he  in  his  place  he  would  give  them  all 
good  education  and  send  them  abroad, 
without  (perhaps)  having  a  precise  idea 
where.  The  father  objected,  that  many 
young  men  lost  their  health  in  foreign 
countries,  and  many  their  lives.  True, 
replied  the  visitor,  but  as  you  have  a  num- 
ber of  sons,  it  will  be  strange  if  someone 
of  them  does  not  live  and  make  a  for- 
tune. 

Let  any  person  who  has  the  feelings  of 
a  father,  comment  on  this  story ;  but 
though  few  will  avow,  even  to  themselves 
that  such  views  govern  their  conduct, 
yet  do  we  not  daily  see  people  shipping  off 
their  sons  (and  who  would  do  so  by  their 
daughters  also,  if  there  were  any  demand 
for  them,)  that  they  may  be  rich  or  perish  ? 

The  education  of  the  lower  classes  is 
seldom  considered  in  any  other  point  of 
view  than  as  the  means  of  raising  them 
from  that  station  to  which  they  were  born, 
and  of  making  a  fortune.  I  am  ignorant 
of  the  mysteries  of  the  art  of  acquiring  a 
fortune  without  any  thing  to  begin  with  ; 
and  cannot  calculate,  with  any  degree  of 
exactness,  the  difficulties  to  be  surmount- 
ed, the  mortifications  to  be  suffered,  and 
the  degradation  of  character  to  be  sub- 


APPENDIX,  NO.  3. 


mitted  to,  in  lending  one's  self  to  be  the 
minister  of  other  people's  vices,  or  in  the 
practice  of  rapine,  fraud,  oppression,  or  dis- 
simulation, in  the  progress ;  but  even  when 
the  wished  for  end  is  attained,  it  may  be 
questioned  whether  happiness  be  much 
increased  by  the  change.  When  I  have 
seen  a  fortunate  adventurer  of  the  lower 
r;uil>s  of  life  returned  from  the  East  or 
West  Indies,  with  all  the  hauteur  of  a 
vulgar  mind  accustomed  to  be  served  by 
slaves;  assuming  a  character  which,  from 
the  early  habits  of  life,  he  is  ill-fitted  to 
support ;  displaying  magnificence  which 
raises  the  envy  of  some,  and  the  contempt 
of  others ;  claiming  an  equality  with  the 
great,  which  they  are  unwilling  to  allow; 
inly  pining  at  the  precedence  of  the  he- 
reditary gentry ;  maddened  by  the  polish- 
ed insolence  of  some  of  the  unworthy  part 
of  them;  seeking  pleasure  in  the  society 
of  men  who  can  condescend  to  flatter  him, 
and  listen  to  his  absurdity  for  the  sake  of 
a  good  dinner  and  good  wine :  I  cannot 
avoid  concluding,  that  his  brother,  or  com- 
panion, who,  by  a  diligent  application  to 
the  labours  of  agriculture,  or  some  useful 
mechanic  employment,  and  the  careful  hus- 
banding of  his  gains,  has  acquired  a  com- 
petence in  his  station,  is  a  much  happier, 
and,  in  the  eye  of  a  person  who  can  take 
an  enlarged  view  of  mankind,  a  much 
more  respectable  man. 

But  the  votaries  of  wealth  may  be  con- 
sidered as  a  great  number  of  candidates 
striving  for  a  few  prizes :  and  whatever 
addition  the  successful  may  make  to  their 
pleasure  or  happiness,  the  disappointed 
will  always  have  more  to  suffer,  I  am 
afraid,  than  those  who  abide  contented 
in  the  station  to  which  they  were  born. 
I  wish,  therefore,  the  education  of  the 
lower  classes  to  be  promoted  and  direct- 
ed to  their  improvement  as  men,  as  the 
means  of  increasing  their  virtue,  and 
opening  to  them  new  and  dignified  sources 
of  pleasure  and  happiness.  I  have  heard 
6ome  people  object  to  the  education  of 
the  lower  classes  of  men,  as  rendering 
them  less  useful,  by  abstracting  them 
from  their  proper  business ;  others,  as 
tending  to  make  them  saucy  to  their  su- 
periors, impatient  of  their  condition,  and 
turbulent  subjects;  while  you,  with  more 
humanity,  have  your  fears  alarmed,  lest 
the  delicacy  of  mind,  induced  by  that  sort 
of  education  and  reading  I  recommend, 
should  render  the  evils  of  their  situation 
insupportable  to  them.  I  wish  to  ex- 
amine the  validity  of  each  of  these  ob- 


255 

jections,  beginning  with  the  one  you  have 
mentioned. 

I  do  not  mean  to  controvert  your  criti- 
cism of  my  favourite  books,  the  Mirror 
and  Lounger,  although  I  understand 
there  are  people  who  think  themselves 
judges,  who  do  not  agree  with  you.  The 
acquisition  of  knowledge,  except  what  is 
connected  with  human  life  and  conduct, 
or  the  particular  business  of  his  employ- 
ment, does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  the  fit- 
test pursuit  for  a  peasant.  I  would  say 
with  the  poet, 

"  How  empty  learning,  and  how  vain  is  art 
Save  where  it  guides  the  life,  or  mends  the  heart.' 

There  seems  to  be  a  considerable  lati- 
tude in  the  use  of  the  word  taste.  I  un- 
derstand it  to  be  the  perception  and  re- 
lish of  beauty,  order,  or  any  thing,  the 
contemplation  of  which  gives  pleasure 
and  delight  to  the  mind.  I  suppose  it  is 
in  this  sense  you  wish  it  to  be  understood. 
If  I  am  right,  the  taste  which  these  books 
are  calculated  to  cultivate  (besides  the 
taste  for  fine  writing,  which  many  of  the 
papers  tend  to  improve  and  to  gratify,)  is 
what  is  proper,  consistent,  and  becoming 
in  human  character  and  conduct,  as  al- 
most every  paper  relates  to  these  sub- 
jects. 

I  am  sorry  I  have  not  these  books  by 
me,  that  I  might  point  out  some  instances. 
I  remember  two;  one  the  beautiful  story 
of  La  Roch,  where,  beside  the  pleasure 
one  derives  from  a  beautiful  simple  story, 
told  in  M'Kenzie's  happiest  manner,  the 
mind  is  led  to  taste  with  heartfelt  rap- 
ture, the  consolation  to  be  derived  in 
deep  affliction,  from  habitual  devotion 
and  trust  in  Almighty  God.     The  other, 

the  story  of  general  W ,  where  the 

reader  is  led  to  have  a  high  relish  for 
that  firmness  of  mind  which  disregards 
appearances,  the  common  forms  and  vani- 
ties of  life,  for  the  sake  of  doing  justice 
in  a  case  which  was  out  of  the  reach  of 
human  laws. 

Allow  me  then  to  remark,  that  if  the 
morality  of  these  books  is  subordinate  to 
the  cultivation  of  taste  ;  that  taste,  that 
refinement  of  mind  and  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment which  they  are  intended  to  give, 
are  the  strongest  guard  and  surest  foun- 
dation of  morality  and  virtue. — Other 
moralists  guard,  as  it  were,  the  overt  act ; 
these  papers,  by  exalting  duty  into  senti- 
ment, are  calculated  to  make  every  de- 


256 

viation  from  rectitude   and  propriety  of 
conduct,  painful  to  the  mind, 

"  Whose  temper'd  powers, 
Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien." 

I  readily  grant  you,  that  the  refinement 
of  mind  which  I  contend  for,  inscreases 
our  sensibility  to  the  evils  of  life !  but 
what  station  of  life  is  without  its  evils ! 
There  seems  to  be  no  such  thing  as  per- 
fect happiness  in  this  world,  and  we  must 
balance  the  pleasure  and  the  pain  which 
we  derive  from  taste,  before  we  can  pro- 
perly appreciate  it  in  the  case  before  us. 
I  apprehend  that  on  a  minute  examina- 
tion it  will  appear,  that  the  evils  peculiar 
to  the  lower  ranks  of  life,  derive  their 
power  to  wound  us,  more  from  the  sug- 
gestions of  false  pride,  and  the  "  conta- 
gion of  luxury,  weak  and  vile,"  than  the 
refinement  of  our  taste.  It  was  a  favour- 
ite remark  of  my  brother's,  that  there  was 
no  part  of  the  constitution  of  our  nature,  to 
which  we  were  more  indebted,  than  that 
by  which  "  Custom  makes  things  familiar 
and  easy"  (a  copy  Mr.  Murdoch  used  to 
set  us  to  write,)  and  there  is  little  labour 
which  custom  will  not  make  easy  to  a 
man  in  health,  if  he  is  not  ashamed  of  his 
employment,  or  does  not  begin  to  com- 
pare his  situation  with  those  he  may  see 
going  about  at  their  ease. 

But  the  man  of  enlarged  mind  feels  the 
respect  due  to  him  as  a  man;  he  has 
learned  that  no  employment  is  dishonour- 
able in  itself;  that  while  he  performs 
aright  the  duties  of  that  station  in  which 
God  has  placed  him,  he  is  as  great  as  a  king 
in  the  eyes  of  Him  whom  he  is  principal- 
ly desirous  to  please ;  for  the  man  of  taste, 
who  is  constantly  obliged  to  labour,  must 
of  necessity  be  religious.  If  you  teach 
him  only  to  reason,  you  may  make  him 
an  atheist,  a  demagogue,  or  any  vile  thing ; 
but  if  you  teach  him  to  feel,  his  feelings 
can  only  find  their  proper  and  natural  re- 
lief in  devotion  and  religious  resignation. 
He  knows  that  those  people  who  are  to 
appearance  at  ease,  are  not  without  their 
share  of  evils,  and  that  even  toil  itself  is 
not  destitute  of  advantages.  He  listens 
to  the  words  of  his  favourite  poet : 

"  O  mortal  man  that  livest  here  by  toil, 
Cease  to  rcpino  and  grudge  thy  hard  estate  ! 

That  like  an  emmet  thovi  must  ever  moil, 
\a  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date  ; 

And,  ccrtcs,  there  is  for  it  reason  great ; 
Although  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and  wail, 

And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge,  and  late ; 


APPENDIX,  NO.  3. 


Withouten  that  would  come  an  heavier  lale^ 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale !" 

And,  while  he  repeats  the  words,  the 
grateful  recollection  comes  across  his 
mind,  how  often  he  has  derived  ineffable 
pleasure  from  the  sweet  song  of  "  Na- 
ture's darling  child."  I  can  say,  from  my 
own  experience,  that  there  is  no  sort  of 
farm-labour  inconsistent  with  the  most 
refined  and  pleasurable  state  of  the  mind 
that  I  am  acquainted  with,  thrashing 
alone  excepted.  That,  indeed,  I  have 
always  considered  as  insupportable  drudg- 
ery, and  think  the  ingenious  mechanic 
who  invented  the  thrashing  machine, 
ought  to  have  a  statue  among  the  bene- 
factors of  his  country,  and  should  be  pla- 
ced in  the  niche  next  to  the  person  who 
introduced  the  culture  of  potatoes  into 
this  island. 

Perhaps  the  thing  of  most  importance 
in  the  education  of  the  common  people  is, 
to  prevent  the  intrusion  of  artificial  wants. 
I  bless  the  memory  of  my  worthy  father 
for  almost  every  thing  in  the  dispositions 
of  my  mind,  and  my  habits  of  life,  which 
I  can  approve  of:  and  for  none  more  than 
the  pains  he  took  to  impress  my  mind 
with  the  sentiment,  that  nothing  was 
more  unworthy  the  character  of  a  man, 
than  that  his  happiness  should  in  the 
least  depend  on  what  he  should  eat  or 
drink.  So  early  did  he  impress  my  mind 
with  this,  that  although  I  was  as  fond  of 
sweatmeats  as  children  generally  are,  yet 
I  seldom  laid  out  any  of  the  half-pence 
which  relations  or  neighbours  gave  me  at 
fairs,  in  the  purchase  of  them  ;  and  if  I 
did,  every  mouthful  I  swallowed  was  ac- 
companied with  shame  and  remorse;  and 
to  this  hour  I  never  indulge  in  the  use  of 
any  delicacy,  but  I  feel  a  considerable  de- 
gree of  self-reproach  and  alarm  for  the  de- 
gradation of  the  human  character.  Such 
a  habit  of  thinking  I  consider  as  of  great 
consequence,  both  to  the  virtue  and  hap- 
piness of  men  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life — 
And  thus,  Sir,  I  am  of  opinion,  that  if 
their  minds  arc  early  and  deeply  impress- 
ed with  a  sense  of  the  dignity  of  man,  as 
such  ;  with  the  love  of  independence  and 
of  industry,  economy  and  temperance,  as 
the  most  obvious  means  of  making  them- 
selves independent,  and  the  virtues  most 
becoming  their  situation,  and  necessar 
to  their  happiness;  men  in  the  lower 
ranks  of  life  may  partake  of  the  pleasures 
to  be  derived  from  the  perusal  of  books 
calculated  to  improve  the  mind  and  re- 


APPENDIX,  NO.  3. 


257 


fine  the  taste,  without  any  danger  of  be- 
coming more  unhappy  in  their  situation 
or  discontented  with  it.  Nor  do  I  think 
there  is  any  danger  of  their  becoming 
less  useful.  There  are  some  hours  every 
day  that  the  most  constant  labourer  is 
neither  at  work  nor  asleep.  These  hours 
are  either  appropriated  to  amusement  or 
to  sloth.  If  a  taste  for  employing  these 
hours  in  reading  were  cultivated,  I  do  not 
suppose  that  the  return  to  labour  would 
be  more  difficult.  Every  one  will  allow, 
that  the  attachment  to  idle  amusements, 
or  even  to  sloth,  has  as  powerful  a  ten- 
dency to  abstract  men  from  their  proper 
business,  as  the  attachment  to  books ; 
while  the  one  dissipates  the  mind,  and 
the  other  tends  to  increase  its  powers  of 
self-government.  To  those  who  are 
afraid  that  the  improvement  of  the  minds 
of  the  common  people  might  be  danger- 
ous to  the  state,  or  the  established  order 
of  society,  I  would  remark,  that  turbu- 
lence and  commotion  are  certainly  very 
inimical  to  the  feelings  of  a  refined  mind. 
Let  the  matter  be  brought  to  the  test  of 
experience  and  observation.  Of  what 
description  of  people  are  mobs  and  insur- 
rections composed  ?  Are  they  not  univer- 
sally owing  to  the  want  of  enlargement 
and  improvement  of  mind  among  the  com- 
mon people  ?  Nay,  let  any  one  recollect 
the  characters  of  those  who  formed  the 
calmer  and  more  deliberate  associations, 
which  lately  gave  so  much  alarm  to  the 
government  of  this  country.  I  suppose 
few  of  the  common  people  who  were  to 
be  found  in  such  societies,  had  the  educa- 
tion and  turn  of  mind  I  have  been  en- 
deavouring to  recommend.  Allow  me  to 
suggest  one  reason  for  endeavouring  to 
enlighten  the  minds  of  the  common  peo- 
ple. Their  morals  have  hitherto  been 
guarded  by  a  sort  of  dim  religious  awe, 
which  from  a  variety  of  causes,  seems 
wearing  off.  I  think  the  alteration  in 
this  respect  considerable,  in  the  short  pe- 
riod of  my  observation.  I  have  already 
given  my  opinion  of  the  effects  of  refine- 
ment of  mind  on  morals  and  virtue. 
Whenever  vulgar  minds  begin  to  shake 
off  the  dogmas  of  the  religion  in  which 
they  have  been  educated,  the  progress  is 
quick  and  immediate  to  downright  infi- 
delity; and  nothing  but  refinement  of 
mind  can  enable  them  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  pure  essence  of  religion,  and 
the  gross  systems  which  men  have  been 
perpetually  connecting  it  with.  In  addi- 
tion to  what  has  already  been  done  for 
the  education  of  the  common  people  of 


this  country,  in  the  establishment  of  par- 
ish schools,  I  wish  to  see  the  salaries 
augmented  in  some  proportion  to  the 
present  expense  of  living,  and  the  earn- 
ings of  people  of  similar  rank,  endow- 
ments, and  usefulness  in  society ;  and  I 
hope  that  the  liberality  of  the  present 
age  will  be  no  longer  disgraced  by  re- 
fusing, to  so  useful  a  class  of  men,  such  en- 
couragement as  may  make  parish  schools 
worth  the  attention  of  men  fitted  for  the 
important  duties  of  that  office.  In  filling 
up  the  vacancies,  I  would  have  more  at- 
tention paid  to  the  candidate's  capacity 
of  reading  the  English  language  with 
grace  and  propriety  ;  to  his  understand- 
ing thoroughly,  and  having  a  high  relish 
for  the  beauties  of  English  authors,  both 
in  poetry  and  prose  ;  to  that  good  sense 
and  knowledge  of  human  nature  which 
would  enable  him  to  acquire  some  influ- 
ence on  the  minds  and  affections  of  his 
scholars ;  to  the  general  worth  of  his 
character,  and  the  love  of  his  king  and 
his  country,  than  to  his  proficiency  in  the 
knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek.  I  would 
then  have  a  sort  of  high  English  class  es- 
tablished, not  only  for  the  purpose  of 
teaching  the  pupils  to  read  in  that  grace- 
ful and  agreeable  manner  that  might  make 
them  fond  of  reading,  but  to  make  them 
understand  what  they  read,  and  discover 
the  beauties  of  the  author,  in  composition 
and  sentiment.  I  would  have  established 
in  every  parish,  a  small  circulating  libra- 
ry, consisting  of  the  books  which  the 
young  people  had  read  extracts  from  in  the 
collections  they  had  read  at  school,  and 
any  other  books  well  calculated  to  refine 
the  mind,  improve  the  moral  feelings,  re- 
commend the  practice  of  virtue,  and  com- 
municate such  knowledge  as  might  be 
useful  and  suitable  to  the  labouring  class- 
es of  men.  I  would  have  the  schoolmas- 
ter act  as  librarian,  and  in  recommending 
books  to  his  young  friends,  formerly  his 
pupils,  and  letting  in  the  light  of  them 
upon  their  young  minds,  he  should  have 
the  assistance  of  the  minister.  If  once 
such  education  were  become  general,  the 
low  delights  of  the  public  house,  and 
other  scenes  of  riot  and  depravity,  would 
be  contemned  and  neglected;  while  indus- 
try, order,  cleanliness,  and  every  virtue 
which  taste  and  independence  of  mind 
could  recommend,  would  prevail  and 
flourish.  Thus  possessed  of  a  virtuous 
and  enlightened  populace,  with  high  de- 
light I  should  consider  my  native  coun- 
try as  at  the  head  of  all  the  nations  of  tho 
earth,  ancient  or  modern. 


253 


APPENDIX,  NO.  3. 


Thus,  Sir,  have  I  executed  my  threat 
to  the  fullest  extent,  in  regard  to  the 
length  of  my  letter.  If  I  had  not  pre- 
sumed on  doing  it  more  to  my  liking,  I 
should  not  have  undertaken  it ;  but  I 
have  not  time  to  attempt  it  anew ;  nor, 
if  I  would,  am  I  certain  that  I  should  suc- 
ceed any  better.  I  have  learned  to  have 
less  confidence  in  my  capacity  of  writing 
on  such  subjects. 

I  am  much  obliged  by  your  kind  inqui- 
ries about  my  situation  and  prospects.  I 
am  much  pleased  with  the  soil  of  this 
farm,  and  with  the  terms  on  which  I  pos- 
sess it.  I  receive  great  encouragement 
likewise  in  building,  enclosing,  and  other 
conveniences,  from  my  landlord,  Mr.  G. 
S.  Monteith,  whose  general  character 
and  conduct,  as  a  landlord  and  country 
gentleman,  I  am  highly  pleased  with. 
But  the  land  is  in  such  a  state  as  to 
require  a  considerable  immediate  outlay 
of  money  in  the  purchase  of  manure,  the 
grubbing  of  brush-wood,  removing  of 
stones,  &c.  which  twelve  years'  struggle 
with  a  farm  of  a  cold,  ungrateful  soil  has 
but  ill  prepared  me  for.  If  I  can  get 
these  things  done,  however,  to  my  mind, 


I  think  there  is  next  to  a  certainty  that 
in  five  or  six  years  I  shall  be  in  a  hopeful 
way  of  attaining  a  situation  which  I  think 
as  eligible  for  happiness  as  any  one  I 
know ;  for  I  have  always  been  of  opinion, 
that  if  a  man  bred  to  the  habits  of  a  farm- 
ing life,  who  possesses  a  farm  of  good 
soil,  on  such  terms  as  enables  him  easily 
to  pay  all  demands,  is  not  happy,  he  ought 
to  look  somewhero  else  than  to  his  situa- 
tion for  the  causes  of  his  uneasiness. 

I  beg  you  will  present  my  most  respect- 
ful compliments  to  Mrs.  Currie,  and  re- 
member me  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Roscoe,  and 
Mr.  Roscoe,  junior,  whose  kind  atten- 
tions to  me,  when  in  Liverpool,  I  shall 
never  forget. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient,  and 

Much  obliged,  humble  Servant, 

GILBERT  BURNS. 

To  James  Currie,  M.  D.  F.  R.  S.  ) 

Liverpool.  $ 


FINIS. 


REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


HI 


*► 


